*The Summit*

In the plains south of the River, there lived the tribes of people commonly known as the Hu. They were hunters of big game, aurochs, antelopes, and horses, and rarely entered the River’s valley. One year, however, the land was hit by a drought. Big animals migrated to the south; many Hu tribes followed them, but some tribes stayed in the savanna and began to raid the River valley, decimating the game and attacking the locals.

The River Clans were in a tough position. Their hunting clans—Kizhji among them—relied on small game around the River and the big animals on the southern shore. Now the big ones were gone, and the small game was targeted by the intruders. Fishing was not enough, vegetation was scarce; to keep their food supplies, they had to either leave the River or fight.

Envoys ran up and down the River, calling men from each clan to a summit on Clay Island upstream. All the best men of the River Clans went there, including Big-Eye and the Respected Qaoron of the First Clans—Lolla-Tombona.

Thus, father and son finally met. Nobody noticed, however, and nobody knew—except Lolla-Tombona himself.

“Why do you look at me like that?ˮ Big-Eye asked him. The people were stunned by the youth’s tone. Everybody waited for the Respected Qaoron’s reaction, but it was calm:

“I'm not looking at you,ˮ he said and looked away.

Nobody knew the meaning of this strange incident, and pretty soon nobody even remembered it—except Uncle Wara-Hiitali. A smart and observant man, he studied the two, the way their hair curled, and how their noses looked, their sharp chins, and their light-brown eyes. The similarities were beyond coincidental, but what to make of it he did not yet know. For the time, he kept his observations to himself.

The summit, meanwhile, boiled with arguments. One half supported Respected Lolla-Tombona who suggested that the hunter clans leave. Another half stood with Qaoron Tutugha-Bimbagha who intended to fight.

“The River is granted to us by Spirit Hoeyi,ˮ Tutugha-Bimbagha argued. He was in his late years already, but still agile and clear-minded. “We are righteous to stay here.”

“Hoeyi granted us the right to stay at the River, but he did not secure for us the right to have all of its food,” said Bawothaik¹/ˌbawoˈθaik/—a man from the Upper Clans, Lolla-Tombona’s lifelong companion and closest friend. “I say, you hunters move downstream, to Bumvanur, maybe to the Eastern Sea. I heard there’s plenty of food down there.”

“Who are you to say things like that?” Tutugha-Bimbagha growled and the grumbling of his people supported him.

“To drive us out into the rotten waters and salty shores,” a voice said from the crowd, “while you remain here? Are you the River People, or are you the allies of the Hu now?”

“We are not driving anybody anywhere!” Bawothaik retorted. “Leaving grounds that are emptied or unfavorable is rational. Hunters have been doing that for generations. Or do you mean you want to shed your blood fighting the Hu? What use would that be for you?”

So they argued, and in the evening the arguments ceased. The men spread across the island to their temporary sheds to rest—all except Lolla-Tombona. He was walking along the shore all night with a grave face and in deep pondering. He went east; then, when he reached the end of the island, he turned north. Then he went north-west and west along the shore, and then south and south-east and east again. He walked all the way around the island. No one could see him—or at least he thought so. Wara-Hiitali followed him all the way. He was the only one who saw Lolla-Tombona in that state.

The night changed to day, and a new round of talks began. They went on until the day changed to night and everybody went back to their sheds. The night changed to day again, and another round of talks began. Many words were said, curses were spat, dirt was thrown in heated debate, and then once again the day changed to night and everybody went into their sheds. It went like that for fifteen days, with many disputes but no decisions.

All those days, Lolla-Tombona sat at the summit without uttering a word, and all the following nights he walked along the shore around the island until morning, and Wara-Hiitali covertly followed him. Little could he figure from the strange behavior of the Respected Qaoron until one night he witnessed an extraordinary thing.

Lolla-Tombona was walking as he used to along the shore but then stopped dead in his tracks. He clutched at a pouch that hung on his chest and muttered words that Wara-Hiitali couldn’t hear. Then the Respected Qaoron of the First Clans tore the pouch off his neck and threw it onto the ground.

“Rotten be your hand, so be it!” he cried, and Wara-Hiitali watched in all attention.

A dark spirit came before Lolla-Tombona from that pouch, and Wara-Hiitali recognized it immediately. It was Kisshina²/ˌkiʃiˈna/, a spirit of lowlands, deeps, and holes.

“What do you offer and what do you need?ˮ Kisshina hissed.

With his head down, Lolla-Tombona stood in front of the spirit.

“A long time ago,” he began, “a child was brought into the world marked by a deformity, the source of which I cannot deduce to this day. This child was put into a basket and let off down the River, doomed to suffering. For these past twenty years, I’ve been living with the hope that the child found peace. That his fate was solved quickly by a crocodile, or a water snake, or at least a kind human soul with a sturdy rock. Twenty years later, I see a man right here, in this summit, with the same deformity on the same side of his face—I see my son, my own son whom I...”

Lolla-Tombona paused, but the spirit did not respect the silence.

“Nice tale, but I did not hear what you offer.”

With a solemn face, after a long sigh, Lolla-Tombona continued,

“I offer you my left hand to feast upon. I need you to resolve the painful fate of that child. Make it disappear. Make it gone once and for all. Make it not exist, make it never appear before my eyes again!”

Lolla-Tombona reached into the pocket on his belt and showed the spirit a hair.

“Bawothaik is the man for you to use.”

The spirit’s face curved in a grin.

“Your dearest friend? The only soulmate in the world you have—you’re selling him to me?”

“He’s not a soulmate,” Lolla-Tombona hissed through his teeth. “Demons from the underground are better mates than this man who’s been plotting against me ever since we first met. The time has come to deal with this man. Why not kill two mongooses with one arrow in the process?”

Kisshina disappeared, content. Lolla-Tombona plodded back to the camp, despondent. Uncle Wara-Hiitali sat in his cover, bewildered. Big-Eye was the son of Lolla-Tombona, and the Respected Qaoron himself was, apparently, the lowest of men. To think about it—the one of whom they tell so many tales and sing such glorifying songs! There is always something to learn in the world of spirits, Uncle thought.

Two days and two nights passed. Wara-Hiitali did not appear in the meetings. With a devoted man* from the Lower Clans, they tried to come up with a plan against the spirit of lowlands. The devoted man went to the southern shore and returned with a bunch of giwellir* and some other herbs. He mixed those herbs in a single sheaf, and that sheaf was to be lit once the evil deed began. The smoke of the herbs, the devoted man explained, would expose the spirit. All that was necessary was to wait for the moment.

That moment came soon. On the third night, the entire camp woke up from noise. Bawothaik, having left his shed, treaded determinedly towards where the Stork Brothers slept with a spear in his hand.

“What are you plotting against my family?” he shouted, approaching them. The Brothers woke up and were stunned by the unexpected presence of Bawothaik threatening Big-Eye.

“What do you want to do to my daughter, Big-Eye the Dung-Bug? I saw your thoughts in my dream!”

“I don’t want to do anything!” Big-Eye screamed.

The men of the clans rushed to the commotion. Wara-Hiitali and the devoted man lit their sheaf and hurried there too. They shoved through the crowd and witnessed Bawothaik being held down by the Stork Brothers, while Big-Eye stood aside astonished. They moved the burning grass around, but the result was not immediate. Several more curses and insults were spat before finally everybody hushed, and voices resonated all around: “What is this? Who is this?”

“This is the trickster who created the commotion,” Wara-Hiitali cried. “Catch it!”

With burning twigs in their hands for light, the men chased after the spirit, but the agile creature evaded everybody. It sprinted across the dry ground like a snake towards Lolla-Tombona’s sleeping place and disappeared in the small pouch that hung on his chest.

The men ran up to him and stopped, bemused. What is all this about? they asked each other.

“Tell them, Lolla-Tombona,” Wara-Hiitali pressed. “Tell them what this is all about! The name of that spirit is Kisshina, and the goal of his evil deed was killing your son Big-Eye,” everybody gasped at this. “By the hand of your closest friend Bawothaik,” and everybody went silent. “For the sake of preserving your status. May my left hand rot off if that’s not true—the same way your left hand will rot away as a payment to the spirit for his favor!”

The men stared at the Respected Qaoron. Mutters of shock ran through the crowd. Some voices asked for more proof. Some men demanded Lolla-Tombona to answer. Then, elbowing his way through the crowd, Big-Eye went forward.

“Son?” he asked Wara-Hiitali and turned to Lolla-Tombona. “Father?” he asked, facing him motionlessly.

Lolla-Tombona sat at his place face down. To the astonishment of the crowd, in a blink of an eye, he—who had always remained so young and handsome a fellow—turned into an old man: his hair went gray and fell off, his teeth went black, his skin dried, his face shrank, his eyes faded. Holding to his spear, he illy lifted himself.

“Yes, son,” he whispered.

“Why?” Big-Eye cried.

But instead of answering, the father grabbed his spear and rushed forward. Praised be the spirit who took away his youth, though, for his movement was now slow, his hands weak, and the men intercepted him easily. They knocked Lolla-Tombona down and tied him up.

“Pitiable man,” Big-Eye mumbled quietly as this was happening, but nobody heard except the Uncle.

Shadow left, and Light came in again. The new day had a new discussion. He who defeated Tlunolo, who befriended Hoeyi, he who led his clan to prosperity, and who helped the other clans so much—he was also the one who gave birth to a freak and then abandoned his child. He was the one who conspired with the spirit of lowlands, who lied to his friend, who betrayed his friend, and who tried to kill the initiated man of Clan Kizhji. What do the River People have to say to such a man? The answer from the clans was unanimous: exile.

“Exile!” Bawothaik hissed through his teeth.

“Exile,” muttered Tutugha-Bimbagha.

Exile, said all who were present. There was no place for a man like that on the River.

And so he was exiled. With a rotting hand and a wry, hastily whittled staff, with a bag of scarce supplies, he trod into the savanna without looking back.

Big-Eye wanted to chase him, but Wara-Hiitali stopped him.

“First things first,” he said to the son who watched his father walk away a criminal.

The summit was still going; decisions had to be made.

 

*Hoeyi*

The nineteenth day of the summit came, and the disputes began anew and ceased immediately as Mother Tushiklu-Yogha came to the island. Without a greeting word, having barely jumped off the reed boat that brought her, she yelled at those present,

“For how much longer do you men intend to hold your discussions? The Hus are scavenging the shores already! They harass us and rob us. The women all over the River have to fend them off themselves and escape from our settlements with nothing but children on their backs!”

The summit concluded immediately. Hurriedly, the men grabbed their weapons and set off downstream to face the scavengers. They reached a raawu on the southern shore near a hill called Tche-Non³/tʃɛ-ˈnon/. A Hu party was there, and the River People hit the shore and faced them, forming a line, yelling loudly. The Hus formed their own line, yelling, cursing fiercely, throwing rocks and sticks. Some men from both parties charged forward with spears but then retreated. Rocks were thrown far enough to hurt somebody, but men dodged them. Thus this stand-off went on for some time, until a man with a big pale spot on his left shoulder, with his spear held high, went forward from the line of Hus and announced,

“My name is Tsho-Tchii⁴/tʃo-ˈtʃiː/. I call on the worthy ones from your tribe to come forward and hold negotiations!”

The shouts and curses stopped. The River People looked around—with Lolla-Tombona expelled, it wasn’t clear who would be the worthy one. The men formed a circle, but Tutugha-Bimbagha sneered, “What, more discussions?” and stepped forward. “I shall be the worthy one,” he announced.

“You?” Tsho-Tchii asked, looking at him. “Where’s Lolla-Tombona?”

Some exchanged glances. Some lowered their heads, some looked up; Tutugha-Bimbagha began his speech without addressing the question.

“I am Tutugha-Bimbagha, the Red Fang and Qaoron of Clan Kizhji. I ask you to stop your raids, cease the harassment of our folk, and go back to your plains.”

Tsho-Tchii said,

“I do not know what you call raids, and what you call harassment. I say we are here on a hunt, and our visit is purely friendly. Back in the plains, the drought drove our game away, leaving nothing for us to hunt. You still have a lot in your valley, and meanwhile, we are relatives, aren’t we? We are all the people of plains, and as such, we’re obliged to share with each other. So share with us your valley, as prescribed by our customs!”

Tutugha-Bimbagha said,

“This River and its valley were granted to us by the Spirit Hoeyi. We are not obliged to share it with anybody!”

Tsho-Tchii replied,

“These are weird words you say. What do you mean, you are not obliged? I’ve just told you, it’s the custom! We are relatives. We are one, and as such, even if we take this thing you say about Hoeyi as true—he granted the River not to you but to all of us. The River is our shared ground!”

“The dirty cats want everything for themselves!” Tushiklu-tu-Wagha hissed.

“They only talk about customs when they see profit for themselves,” Hala-Totala-Shkuu agreed.

Big-Eye went forward.

“Don’t mix the customs as if they are all sand and dirt. The custom of sharing applies to food and goods. The game is the possession of the patrons. The patron of this river granted the right to its game to my father...”

In the silence of emerged confusion, an overflowing song of a lark resounded. Tsho-Tchii said,

“Yes, I know this hunter. Big Eye, isn’t it? The one who earned the Jackal’s pelt and then lost it to a girl in the fields,” and the brotherhood behind him resounded with laughter. “Your other deeds are impressive though. Who do you say your father is?”

Tutugha-Bimbagha pushed Big-Eye back.

“That is of no importance now. He is right: each tribe has its ground. Our ground is the River and its valley, your ground is the plains. This is the custom.”

Tsho-Tchii said,

“You keep talking in this weird way. Of no importance. Our clans are starving back in the plains—this is very much of importance to us. The very oldest custom that every folk in the world will agree with is that a man must provide for his clan. What do you suggest we do when the savanna becomes a desert, and you sit near your cool River surrounded by food? What would your patron say if you had no food and had to go to other grounds?”

“Well, why don’t we ask Hoeyi himself?” Tutugha-Bimbagha said, implying another old custom of both plains and rivers—to ask the more powerful ones for solutions in conflicts. Thus, after several more exchanges, both parties settled on going to the spirit and asking him.

The very next day, two groups headed downstream. In the first was Uncle Wara-Hiitali, the Stork Brothers, and three other young men, all armed with bows. They left early in the morning and went ahead. In the second group, there were Tutugha-Bimbagha, a devoted man from the Lower Clans, two River men, and four Hu men, all armed with spears. They left later and were unaware of the first group.

“The Hu are reckless people,” Wara-Hiitali explained to his group the night before. “They make no bones about getting anything they want. Whatever they plan for this endeavor, we must be ready to resist their imprudence.”

For that purpose, Wara-Hiitali covertly led the young men ahead. They arrived at the place near the Last Rock and hid in the grass. The second group arrived soon after and made camp at a dry sandy field that faced the end of a backwater. The devoted man began the ritual of summoning the Water Spirit. He dug a furrow from where people were sitting to the water's edge. He put at the beginning of the groove three tufts of black hair and three bunches of cattails, then three wooden fish, and three wooden snakes. Chanting the calling song, he poured water atop the four ingredients from a pot.

The bowmen watched from the grass.

“There he comes,ˮ the devoted one announced at last.

A gray creature with long dirty hair slowly surged from the water and walked ashore, covered in wet weeds and mud, smelling of river water and fish, lurching like a reptile, coughing like a dog.

“What?ˮ he inquired in a hoarse voice.

“Treat us well and don’t be mad, Water Spirit,” the devoted one began. “There are two stories you need to hear from these two men. Listen carefully and give us your opinion.”

Both parties laid out their arguments. Tutugha-Bimbagha went first and reminded the Spirit of Lolla-Tombona’s help in providing safety for his children.

“Yes, I remember,” the Spirit said.

Tsho-Tchii went second and explained his earlier point about them all being relatives.

“Yes, you’re right,” Hoeyi agreed.

“Right?” Tsho-Tchii caught up. “You agree?”

The Spirit seemed to hesitate. After a few moments, he began,

“I granted the River to the First Clans and their descendants because of everything Lolla-Tombona did for me.ˮ

“Yes, I’ve already heard that. Do you accept that Lolla-Tombona was the relative of the Hu?”

The spirit scratched his shaggy head.

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you accept then that the Hus have the right to hunt on the River’s shore?”

The spirit spat.

“No. I grant the River to the First Clans, not to the plain clans. The people of plains have plains—”

“The plains are empty!” Tsho-Tchii cried in a frenzy.

“The plains are your place,” Hoeyi retorted. “Their emptiness is your problem, and who knows—maybe it’s your fault? Adjust your habits and don’t strive for what’s not yours.”

Without another word, Hoeyi turned and moved to the water. Tsho-Tchii stood motionless, his face blank, his veins popping out on his forehead.

“Woe to us, dear brothers. No respect for the customs, no compassion for the starving. Truly, these are not our relatives. Our place is in the plains, they say. The drought is our fault, they figure. Their spirit goes to hell, says I! Our place is where a spear hits the target, so get your hit, you dirty fraud!”

Tsho-Tchii lifted his spear and threw it into Hoeyi’s back. The Spirit splashed into the water with a shriek. The other Hus attacked the River men, charged at them with spears, seeking not to threaten but to kill.

“Jump up, boys!ˮ Wara-Hiitali screamed, and the bowmen jumped out from the reeds. They loosed their arrows at the assaulters; one Hu fell from Wara-Hiitali’s arrow. Another one turned to run away but was slain by Tushiklu-tu-Wagha’s arrow. One Hu hurt a River man and charged at the second one; he was slain by Hala-Totala-Shkuu’s arrows. Tsho-Tchii himself knocked down Tutugha-Bimbagha and pierced him with his spear. Wara-Hiitali hit him in the chest, but Tsho-Tchii did not fall. With a fierce cry, he tore the arrow from his chest, picked up a spear, and threw it into Wara-Hiitali, hitting him in the stomach. He then charged at the uncle like he was not hurt. Big-Eye hit him with four arrows—four arrows were needed to kill this man.

Thus, the fight was over quickly. All the Hus were dead. Tutugha-Bimbagha and the devoted man from the Lower Clans died from their wounds as well.

Spirit Hoeyi was dead. His body was wrapped up by his children-snakes and carried away into the depths of the River. The River People built a shrine at the place of the fight for the children of Hoeyi to gather and commemorate their father.

The bodies of the fallen Hus were returned to their clans. Wara-Hiitali was carried by the Stork Brothers back to the clan, where every member provided whatever care they could for him. Shaman from the northern shore, Ira-Wyghu, was called, but when he saw the wounded uncle, he said,

“I cannot help. The rot spirits are already inside, gnawing on his flesh.”

The shaman prepared mixtures and concoctions for the uncle that would relieve his pain and went away. For five moons Uncle Wara-Hiitali lay in his reed house, with Big-Eye always at his side. On the eve of the sixth moon, Uncle Wara-Hiitali died, surrounded by his family and clanmates, relieved of pain.

On the day of the funeral, Big-Eye himself put the black spear beside the uncle’s body in the reed boat. He then set the boat ablaze and pushed it off the shore. Down the River it floated, carrying the deceased to the Last Rock, where Raven and Lark would take the two halves of his spirit and carry them over to Payahas, to rejuvenate and reincarnate them and send them back to the center of the world as life anew.