The four sons were Dat, Trut, Klazhano, and Ramaral1/dat/; /trut/; /klaʒaˈno/; /ramaˈral/. Dat was stingy, Trut was stormy, Klazhano was boisterous, Ramaral was strong but always sad. The four brothers were smaller than their father, Five-Finger, but larger than their mother, Lady Doe. In comparison to us, though, they were still giants.
Once upon a time, Dat found a crystal fallen from the sky. The thing sparkled mesmerizingly. It was harder than stone, sharper than chipped obsidian, shinier than the sun. He kept it for himself, which made his other brothers jealous.
“Don’t you know the rule, brother?” Ramaral told him. “We’re supposed to share!”
“The rule our parents taught us,” Klazhano added.
“The rule of life,” Trut said.
“Don’t you know that every rule exists to be broken?” Dat replied. “My thing. I won’t share. Scram!”
The brothers got angry. Trut reached out his hand to grab the crystal—Dat bit the hand. “Ouch!” Trut yelled; Klazhano rushed past him,
“I will kick you!” He grabbed Dat, but Dat squirmed out and kicked Klazhano in the groin. “Ouch,” Klazhano moaned; Ramaral ran past him with a warcry,
“Hara!” Dat stepped aside and Ramaral flew past him far into the plains; they didn’t even hear his “ouch!”—so far he flew.
Trut grabbed a rock and launched it into Dat. The rock hit Dat on his butt.
“Ouch!” Dat cried, and Trut laughed.
“That’s right, brother. Now you know what p—” Dat tackled Trut to the ground, not letting him finish. Klazhano then took a stick and hit Dat in his head.
“Oof, that hurt very much,” Dat growled, turning around. He caught the stick when Klazhano swung it again and took it away. Now Dat ran after Klazhano, hitting him with the stick.
Meanwhile, Ramaral returned, rubbing his scratched big face. He took a stone and took a stick and latched them together. When Dat ran past him, he hit Dat’s face with the rock on the stick.
With a cry of pain, poor Dat flew away. Ramaral gawked, amazed, at the powerful weapon that he made—the very first hammer ever made.
Dat landed west of the Semse River. He made a deep valley when he landed—this valley exists to this day. Rubbing his injured limbs, Dat got up and saw in the distance his three brothers running towards him. What to do? How to hide? Dat had an idea. He began raking dirt from around him, piling it up higher and higher. By the time they reached him, Dat had heaped together a good and high Small Mountain.
“Come and get my crystal, weaklings!” Dat boasted from the top. The brothers tried to climb the mountain, but failed: they stumbled, they slipped down, they couldn’t hold on to the slope. Dat pushed them off and called them nasty names; he had the high ground, and the brothers were all below!
“Watch this!” Trut shouted suddenly and began raking too. Others joined him, and soon the three brothers heaped up another mountain nearby, and it was big—very Big Mountain.
“Look at this,” Klazhano teased Dat. “Ours is higher than yours!”
In an instant, Dat forgot about the crystal. He now wanted the Biggest Mountain for himself. He ran down his Small Mountain, picked up speed, and charged up the Big Mountain. The three brothers did not expect this charge. Dat pushed them all off the top—down they rolled, swearing, and Dat laughed at them from above.
“Aha! Now I’ve got an even higher ground. Come and get me if you can, oddballs!”
Again, the three brothers tried to climb but failed—the Big Mountain was even harder to climb. Then, Trut went back a distance; he sped up and ran up almost to the top, but still slipped down. Klazhano, taking the example, took a longer run, gained speed, and ran up so fast and high he almost reached Dat. Dat hit him in the face, and he rolled down. Ramaral took yet a longer run and gained so much speed he ran all the way to the top and beyond. Dat stepped aside and let Ramaral fly off into the air again.
Klazhano went away to gain as much speed as possible. He went back so far he reached the place of their initial fight. There he found Ramaral’s hammer. Klazhano studied it from all sides and went back—he had an idea.
While Trut and Ramaral kept running up the Big Mountain on the eastern side, Klazhano went around and approached it from the west. Dat was busy protecting his ground and laughing at his loser brothers—he didn’t see what came behind. Klazhano swayed the hammer and hit the slope. The hit made a niche in the slope which Klazhano stood in and made another hit higher. Another niche appeared, and Klazhano stepped up and made yet another one higher. In this way, he ascended the Big Mountain. He crawled up to Dat from behind, swung his hammer once, swung it twice, and smack! Off to the north flew Dat.
Trut was the next to face Klazhano. The hammer swung again and hit Trut—off he flew to the south. Ramaral was the only one left.
“Well, that’s not fair,” Ramaral said.
“Why’s that?” Klazhano asked, leaning on his hammer.
“That tool was made by me. The idea was conceived by me.”
“So it may be, but I’m the wielder now!”
“Well, it’s still not fair. This gives you an advantage.”
“That is right! And what is wrong with having an advantage?”
Ramaral tried to think of an answer. He thought hard, and he thought for long. He thought very hard indeed, trying to come up with an answer. He tried, and he tried, and then he tried again—harder than before. Alas! Ramaral could not find the answer. Livid, he groaned and charged up the slope with his warcry. Klazhano picked up the hammer, swung it once, swung it twice, and then thrice—and hit poor Ramaral right in his chin. Up he flew, poor Ramaral, hit the sky and fell back to the ground. His head was underground, his butt stuck out with legs stirring. Klazhano ran down the mountain, swung his hammer once, swung it twice, and smacked Ramaral under the ground for good.
Klazhano was the victor. He plunged on top of his Big Mountain, his hammer near his right hand, legs hanging off the steep cliff. The view was gorgeous, the air crisp, the breeze cool and nice. There was nothing for Klazhano to fear anymore. There was, however, one problem that gnawed at him: he didn’t know what to do with his hard-earned victory.
***
Dat could not put up with the humiliation. When he recovered from the impact, he gathered all the sand that he could find around him. He made the first sandstorm—it was so huge that the whole of the north was engulfed by the deadly dusty wind. Under the cover of the sandstorm, Dat moved to the Big Mountain.
At that time, Old Raven was flying by. A blow from the sandstorm hit him, twirled him, and threw him down to the ground. With curses and swearings, Old Raven got up and looked around. Dat and Klazhano had a fight up the Big Mountain, tearing ground, kicking up dust, shattering the sky above—it was a mess. “Kora!” Old Raven yelled. He grabbed a stick, his favorite weapon, and spanked both brothers. He drove Dat away from the Big Mountain, back into the north. He drew a line which became the River; Dat was not supposed to cross that line.
Trut wanted revenge too. When he recovered from the fall, he gathered all the water he could find around him in the southern forests. He made the first rainstorm—it was so fierce, the whole of the south was darkened by the black rain clouds. Riding his storm, Trut moved to the Big Mountain.
Old Raven was resting on the shore of the Semse, his stick lying near him.
“Ayah,” he grumbled. “What a mess. What a mess in all directions!”
A blow of wind from the Trut’s rainstorm hit him in the back, sending him rolling down the shore and right into the water. When he emerged, he saw Trut and Klazhano fight up the Big Mountain. Livid, he didn’t even say his ‘Kora!’ He grabbed the stick and beat Trut back into the southern forests. He put in line big thick trees which are called Dashtchi-‘A2/ˌdaʃtʃi-ˈʔa/ where ʔ is a glottal stop. Trut was not supposed to go past those trees.
Thus, the three major parts of the world appeared: the desert in the north—domain of Dat, the forests in the south—domain of Trut, and the savanna in the center with Klazhano’s Big Mountain reigning over it.
***
“What does this word mean—‘reign’?” I asked Zewe-Zdywe when he finished the story.
“Eh, you know it when you see it,” he said, washing his hands in a pond. He poured some water on his short hair and sipped some from his palm; I did the same. “ ‘Reign’ means that when you look at it, you feel small. Because it’s so big it covers half the sky. It’s... yeah, I dunno how to say it. You know when you see it,” he finished, seeing that I still did not grasp the meaning.
“By the way, there’s another version of that story,” he said when we went on. “Klazhano picked up his hammer, swung it once, swung it twice, and then thrice. Smash! Up he flew, poor Ramaral, right into the sky. His head stuck there, and ever since, he remained in the blue, his butt hanging over everything. Later on, people called Ramaral’s butt the moon.
“But I ain’t like that one. Kind of stupid to think that the moon is a butt. For example, when Yoyo fights the moon in the dark place behind the horizon, and the moon wins the fight and rises bleeding—it means what, Yoyo fought the butt? Ain’t good, I say.”
“Can you tell that story?” I asked him.
“Sure. Later, though. First about the sisters—it’s important.”
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