Authors: L. M. Roth
Marcus woke to
the warmth of the sun already in the sky, the cry of gulls somewhere close at
hand, and the sight of a long, wooden pole aimed straight at his throat. His
first instinct to grab the pole and knock the bearer off his feet was quickly
stifled when he saw how many young men there were, and realized that among them
only Dag carried a spear, while he and Felix carried daggers. The rest were
unarmed.
And, he
thought with a touch of irony, Dominio does not like fighting anyway.
He called out
to the others to wake, which they did to varying degrees of alarm. Kyrene
remained calm, while Dag would have put up a fight had they not been
outnumbered. Cort edged closer to Dag and Elena screamed, only to have Felix
clap a hand over her mouth to stifle it, while he himself grinned at Marcus in
amusement over the unusual attire of their captors.
They were
routed to their feet and forced to follow the strange young men, who simply
pointed where they wanted them to go, which was in a large boat constructed of
a hollowed out tree trunk. It was about forty feet in length and seated all of
them with ease.
Their own
boat, packed with their belongings, they were forced to abandon in the cave
where they had stowed it. Marcus signed to the others to look away from the cave
as they passed it, lest they betray its hidden treasure. For the sword Logos
was stored on board, and Marcus feared it would be taken from him if these men
knew of its existence.
They scrambled
into the log and quickly sailed from the little isle. The journey did not take
long as their destination was the largest island a mere mile or so away. They
sailed around its outer edge and into a bay that was hidden from view when on
the sea.
Despite their
danger, Marcus could not help but admire the view that met their gaze. A row of
about twenty huts that appeared to be resting on the ocean reflected themselves
on the water, creating a mirrored effect. As they drew closer he saw that the
huts, which were made of some type of thatch and were a conical shape, rested
on a wooden pier built on stilts that extended over the sea and away from the
shore.
How curious,
he thought, but there was no time for reflection for they had docked at the
pier and were being forced to debark at the command of the islanders. They were
marched to the largest of the huts, which was set a little apart from the
others at the end of the pier closest to the shore.
One of the
young men rapped with his pole on the side of the hut. A narrow slit too small
for a door opened to disclose a pair of cautious brown eyes. The young man
spoke to the other in a language Marcus had never heard before, with gestures
toward the Alexandrians. The other man grunted a reply and closed the little
window.
After a long
and discomforting pause he reappeared at a panel of the hut that opened to
reveal a door. He jerked his head for the others to enter, and they all trooped
into the small hut.
The hut was
constructed entirely of thatch and was sparsely furnished with a small table
and a few stools made of some reedy material woven like a basket. A curtain
made from the frothy branches of the trees that were prevalent on the island
screened the sleeping quarters from view. Marcus decided that the primitive
little hut made Dag’s simple wooden house seem like a palace by comparison.
Marcus
realized there were other people he had not noticed while taking stock of his
surroundings. A man of about forty winters and a woman only a few years younger
challenged them with their dark eyes burning like coals in a grate. He was dressed
in similar attire to the young men; she was clad in a sleeveless sheath that
fell to the knee. The fabric seemed to be a kind of flax, and both wore stones
of a clear bright orange around their necks. They were the only ones who wore
them, and Marcus felt certain that the fact was one of some tribal
significance.
The man
stepped forward and spoke rapidly at Marcus and his friends in a rasping voice.
None of them could answer because they did not understand what was being said.
Their silence appeared to frustrate the woman who sauntered, forth, swishing
her skirt as she did so. She all but screamed at them in a shrill high voice
that grated on Marcus’ ear.
He determined
that they should at least appear to make some effort to communicate, so he
introduced himself in the Common Tongue.
“I am Marcus
Maximus,” he began, speaking slowly. “My companions and I have journeyed a long
way, and came to rest on the small isle.”
His words only
drew blank faces from the man and woman. But one of the young men suddenly became
alert and caught Marcus’ attention.
“You are from
Valerium?” he asked with a slight frown creasing his forehead.
“Yes!” Marcus
responded, both relieved and excited that someone at last could understand him.
“How did you know that?”
The young man
looked at him but did not smile.
“I was an
unwilling guest in Valerium and learned some of the language, also the Common
Tongue. Your name is well-known there, so I knew you to be of that land.”
“An unwilling
guest?” Marcus repeated, as his own brow puckered in puzzlement.
“Yes. About
five years ago. I took a boat to sail away from the islands to see what I could
see. A ship of your people captured me. I was sold as a slave in the market. I
was sent to Valerium, where my master was hard and cruel. He taught me the
Common Tongue because he would not speak a barbarian tongue. I served for about
two years. Then one night I made escape to come back home.
“I did not
like Valerium,” the young man finished with a flash of his eyes.
Marcus liked
the look of the young man and decided to be frank with him.
“I do not
always like Valerium myself, although it is my home. And I served as a slave
myself for a time, so I do understand your dislike.
“Let
us
,
however, be friends,” and he bowed in greeting to the young man.
The young man
hesitated as he searched Marcus’ eyes to determine his sincerity; then gently
inclined his head.
“I am Bimo,”
he said as a smile lightened his face and brightened his eyes.
He turned away
from Marcus and spoke to the older man and woman. They gestured to the other
young men, who at once lowered their spears and filed out of the hut.
Bimo turned
once again to the Alexandrians, whom Marcus quickly introduced. When he had
finished Bimo brought forth the man and woman.
“This is
Intami,” he called the woman, who watched them with hard unrelenting eyes.
“And this is
Yudo,” Bimo said, as he introduced the man, who was clearly their chief.
Yudo and
Intami reeled off another string of words which Bimo interpreted for them.
“You are now a
guest in Cahyala, land of the Flame Throwers.”
They had been
on the island for two days. Bimo graciously invited them to stay in his house.
He had no family, he said, his father and mother having died of a fever the
winter before. He had no siblings and was alone in the world.
So they stayed
in the house of Bimo, his little hut hardly seemed large enough to accommodate
them. But by giving Kyrene and Elena the sleeping quarters and allotting the
living quarters and a back veranda to the men, they managed. Dag and Cort took
the living quarters along with Bimo, for the Northerners found they could not
withstand the mosquitoes that occasionally shared the veranda.
Marcus and
Felix, however, found that the sound of the wave slapping against the pier, the
sight of a tropical moon illuminating the hot, velvety darkness, and the scent
of exotic flowers borne aloft on the ocean breezes, more than compensated them
for having to tolerate the occasional mosquito.
They began to
relax and enjoy this interlude on the island.
As they became
better acquainted with Bimo, Marcus began to respect the young man whom he had
first lumped along with the rest of the islanders as a savage; a primitive
people without education or interaction with the rest of the world, and
ignorant of its languages, peoples, or customs.
But Bimo,
Marcus discovered, was not quite so heathen. In the days of his captivity he
had traveled with his Valerian master and had seen much of the world. He had
learned the Valerian tongue, and learned also some of the Valerian customs,
history, and manners.
He had also
seen the Isles of Solone, where he felt a kinship with their culture. For its
history was made known to him and its beauty, more cultivated than the wild
beauty of his own island home, captivated and enthralled him. Were it not for
his parents and their worry of what had happened to him, Bimo said, he might
have made his home in Solone and found perfect contentment there.
Yet he had
returned to the island for the sake of his parents, but he found himself
unhappy when he was ensconced once more back on the island. He had made the sad
discovery that though he had changed, life among his people remained the same.
The customs
engendered in him while growing up struck him as rude and primitive now. For
how, he asked Marcus and Felix, could he revert to eating with his hands after
being taught how to use utensils? How could he run around with a mere cloth to
cover himself after seeing the august robes of rich cloth of the Emperor of
Valerium, and the dazzling armor of his Imperial soldiers?
Most difficult
of all, Bimo explained, as they strolled along the beach with him on a day of
radiant sunlight and soothing surf, was to accept the simplistic beliefs with
which he had grown up. After traveling through the Valeriun Empire and staying
in Solone, and seeing how many different gods these people worshiped, it was
almost impossible to blindly believe as his people did.
No, Bimo
sighed, he had changed and he wondered if he could ever feel the island was home
again.
Marcus
remembered his own homecoming after his captivity, and how dramatically his
life had changed, and he felt an empathy with Bimo. For truly, it must be the
most unsettling feeling in the word, to discover that home was home no longer.
Felix,
however, seized on Bimo’s words regarding the beliefs of the islanders.
“Bimo, my good
friend,” he began, “you mentioned the beliefs of your people, yet did not say
what they are. What
do
they believe, if I may ask?”
Bimo did not
hesitate, but obliged Felix at once.
“They
believe,” he stated simply, “that fire created all life, and can take all life,
and is therefore to be worshiped.”
He stopped;
Marcus and Felix waited for him to continue, then realized he was finished
speaking.
“You mean like
a fire deity,” Felix commented, “rather like other peoples who worship a sun
god. Is that it?”
“No,” Bimo
shook his head. “They do not believe in a god. They believe that fire gives all
life, and that it can take life. So it is to be worshiped and feared.”
“But, Bimo,”
Marcus inquired, running his hand through his hair in his frustration, “why do
they believe that, yet don’t believe in an actual god?”
Bimo smiled at
the bewilderment of his friends.
“You must
understand how simple my people are,” he explained. “They eat fish and fruit
because all around them is fish and fruit. They make boats from hollowed logs
because they do not know of any other way to make a boat. They build huts from
thatch because straw is all they have to build with.
“They have no
curiosity about the world around them. No, not even upon my return did they
question where I had been or what I had seen, or what peoples I had met with.
They only accept what they see, smell, hear, or feel.”
Felix
interrupted, unable to comprehend a people so lacking in the desire for
knowledge.
“But why do
they believe that fire gives and takes life? Where did that concept evolve
from?”
Bimo did not
answer directly, but turned his head in the direction of the far side of the
island.
“Do you recall
seeing a mountain of conical shape when you first sailed into these waters?”
Marcus and
Felix nodded.
“That
mountain,” Bimo continued, “is sacred to my people. They call it the Mountain
of Fire, and worship it.”
“Why is that?”
Felix inquired. “I have heard of sun god worship, but not a mountain.”
Bimo smiled
patiently and continued. Marcus himself tried not to fret at Felix’s perpetual
interruptions. If he would just let Bimo speak he would have finished by now!
“That mountain
sometimes spits out tongues of fire, red and glowing. And they flow over all
the land, burning what it touches. Yet it also gives life after it destroys it.
Have you noted all the small islands around the large one?
“My people say
that many years ago they were all one island. Then one day Diono, that is what
they call the mountain, belched fire high into the sky, higher than it ever had
before. And it thundered and shook for many hours. It shook so hard that it
blew the island apart, and the sea rushed in, and we now have many islands
around the large one.
“They say that
it is because Diono is a king and has the larger share. But after the islands
split and the fire stopped flowing, it could be seen that everywhere the fire
touched new shoots of grass sprang up. And it was a richer green than the grass
that was there before.
“So that is
why my people believe that fire gives and takes life. And that is why, on the
night of the full moon, they climb to the top of Diono, and they throw into his
mouth the flowers of flame that grow on the islands. It is an offering to
Diono, to ask that he will give life and not take it.
“But I cannot
believe as they do anymore. I simply cannot, and what I shall do about that, I
do not know.”
And Bimo cradled
his head in his hands, the very picture of despair.