Black Sea Deluge - A Flood Myth Short Story Page 2
Chapter Two
Ten Years Later
Ku-aya fondly scrunched Midnight’s ears as he padded alongside her toward the New Bridge. The flock of sheep meandered contentedly before them in the dawn mists, knowing their way without need of help. When the old bridge had been swept away four years ago, and this new, curved one had been built, the sheep had at first needed some encouragement to mount its sloped sides. But now they knew how to traverse its arch and barely blinked as they moved up and over. Beneath, the salt-river tumbled and growled, fully engorged in the springtime rush.
Ku-aya shook her head, running a hand along the smooth railing. She could see where the water was already tugging at the supports along the northern bank. While the bridge might last this current season, she had a sense that there would be yet another rebuilding soon, if the two halves of the village were to stay connected.
She guided the sheep along the narrow path, skirting the fallen log, and smiled as she came into the clearing. Her youngest brother, Mattaki, was kneeling by a flat rock, propping up a series of sticks. A slingshot was jammed into the belt at his waist, and she had no doubt he was about to engage in some target practice.
She grinned at him. “I’ve brought you the rest of your charges for the day. Everybody else accounted for?”
He nodded with bright eyes. “Plus one extra.”
She turned -
Pu-Dagan burst up from behind the rock, laughing in merriment. He was tall and slender, and his waist-length hair was braided back in a style similar to her own. But where her hide tunic was neat and well cared for, his was peppered with rips and tears. No matter how many new tunics his family bought for him at the marketplace, embossed with beautiful design-work, he always found a way to tumble them to destruction.
He loped over and threw a stick high in the air, off into a scrabble of bushes. Midnight bounded after it in delight. Pu-Dagan then grabbed up Ku-aya’s hands and swept her in. His head delved in for a kiss, but she turned her head, blushing, and he bussed the side of her neck. She teased, “Stop it!”
He laughed. “There’s no one here but the sheep, Ku-Ku. Give me a kiss. You know you’re the only one for me!”
She pushed him away, grinning. “As is Sin-nada. And Alittum. And -”
He put his hand to his heart in mock pain. “They are nothing. Nothing! It is only you who has my heart, Ku-Ku. Your beautiful brown eyes. Your hair which shimmers like a raven’s wing. Your delicate hands -”
“My delicate hands need to get back home,” she countered, “because there’s planting to be done, or we won’t eat come fall. And aren’t you needed at home for the same reason?”
He laughed. “My father has plenty of workers. And, besides, Mattaki here is going to teach me some new slingshot techniques.”
Ku-aya had a feeling that the only thing the two men would be doing was sharing ribald jokes and stretching out beneath the warm spring sunshine.
Midnight trotted back to drop the stick at her feet, and she gave him a gentle pet. “All right, Midnight, you keep my brother company. I’ll be back for you later.”
Pu-Dagan nudged his head toward the rock. “Sure you don’t want to stay? I have some honey wine, and a half-a-loaf of -”
Ku-aya’s stomach rumbled, and she turned before she could weaken. Her own family’s stores were in the usual spring state of nearly empty. She was looking forward to the coming weeks when the early berries came on the vines and the first spring crops came up, green and bright. It would be a welcome relief from the dusty remnants of last year’s harvest.
Down the path, through the village, and across the bridge which quivered with the thunder of the salt-river. She turned left at the other side to head toward her tholos - the furthest one downstream.
She was surprised to see her two uncles standing before her tholos with her parents. Their hands were hitched in their belts and their long braids swayed as they spoke. It seemed to be about something serious.
Her steps slowed, and she slid to the right to stay out of their sight-line. Intense curiosity filled her and soon their voices became clear.
Her mother insisted, “Selling your land to Zababa-il makes no sense at all. He just wants to rival Pu-Dagan’s family’s wealth and we know that’s a lost cause. Besides, what are you getting in return? A few cows and two sickle swords? For what? We haven’t had bandits here in over ten years!”
Uncle Kuwari’s gaze was serious. His forked beard moved with each gesture he made. “We’ve heard that there are bandits found further upstream, as you get toward the larger towns there.”
Ku-aya’s mother paled. “Nobody goes upstream. That way leads into the high mountains. They’re impassable.”
Ku-aya turned to look. It was true, of course. Where the north, east, and south were gently rolling plains which stretched to eternity, the west rolled up in fits and starts until it shot straight up into a massive wall of rock. The salt-river descended from Striker’s home high atop that barrier.
Uncle Kuwari’s hand flexed on his belt. “Traders at the summer bazaar say that the mountains are passable. They claim that a salt pond lies beyond. Uselli and I think that sea is where our salt-river comes from. We want to see the source. To figure out why our river keeps swelling.” His gaze shadowed. “Maybe there’s a way to dam it up, so it doesn’t further split our village in two.”
Uncle Uselli nodded in agreement. He could have been Uncle Kuwari’s twin, rather than older brother, so alike were the two, except that where Kuwari’s beard was forked, Uselli let his flower free in a large bushy shape. “We’ll be gone perhaps two weeks. We figure three days to reach the base of the mountains and another three to find our way up.”
Uncle Kuwari’s somber face gentled into a smile. “It should be easier coming down, I imagine.”
Ku-aya’s mother put a concerned hand on Uncle Kuwari’s arm. “I know losing your wife and son in childbirth was hard -”
The lightness left his face again. “They are buried and gone - they have nothing to do with this. And our lands we’re selling are the closest in to the river. They flooded last year and we lost a third of our crops. Unless we figure this out, in a few years none of us will have crops. And the village will be permanently split. What will we do then?”
Ku-aya’s father nodded. “It is time we knew more about what is happening. We’ll take good care of your cows while you’re gone. And then we can figure out what to do from there. If we need to relocate our fields further south, we can begin the work.”
He clasped arms first with Uncle Uselli, then with Uncle Kuwari. Ku-aya’s mother then stepped forward to give each man a warm hug.
Uncle Uselli turned with a sparkle in his eye. “Come on out, Ku-aya. Wish us fair journeys.”
Ku-aya blushed and skipped forward to stand before them. “Do you really have to go?”
Uncle Uselli nodded, drawing her in. “You get more beautiful every day, little Ku. It’s time now for you to have a husband and children of your own. If the village needs to be moved, we would do that before you put down your roots.”
Ku-aya’s cheeks deepened. “Mother still needs my help with my three younger brothers -”
Uncle Kuwari rustled her hair before easing her into a hug. “Your three younger brothers are practically men themselves,” he pointed out. “If I’m not mistaken, Akiya is nearly ready to propose to his sweetheart.”
Ku-aya knew it was true. And she had a sense that her mother would manage quite well enough once her two eldest children were off in their own homes. After all, it was not as if Ku-aya would move away to the far reaches of the village on the northwest side, which seemed another world. She would have her own tholos right alongside her family’s. She would always be a mere friendly-shout away.
Still, the thought of setting up a home with Pu-Dagan sent shadows of unhappiness through her, even with his laughing eyes and playful jests. Would he be serious enough to shoulder the many responsibilities which came with husbandry? Or would h
e remain the perpetual boy, taking after the lazy ease of his forever-boasting father?
Yes, Pu-Dagan had wealth. His family’s large tholos was lined with shelves laden with elegant spiral-design pottery and beautiful stone statues. His mother was typically adorned with stunning copper necklaces and elegant bone combs. The woman sought out opportunities to showcase her finery to every other female in the village.
And all of that could be Ku-aya’s world …
She shook her head. She knew she should be overjoyed at the thought of being Pu-Dagan’s wife. He had certainly made his intentions clear for several years now. Somehow she could not bring herself to return his interest. And so she had put him off … and put him off ...
Uncle Kuwari tweaked her under her chin. “Now, now, Ku, don’t look like that,” he murmured, misreading her discomfort. “We’ll be back soon, we promise.”
He reached over to the side of the tholos where the two sickle swords waited. He handed one to his brother and tucked his own into his belt. “Come, Ku, walk with us to the edge of the village. See us off. That will raise your spirits.”
She drew on a smile and nodded. In a moment the five of them headed north.
Villagers came out from their tholoi as the small group passed, offering suggestions for the road and warnings about bandits. Jokes were bandied about the swords and their sharp edges. Each villager’s smile held bemused disbelief that the brothers would venture such a long trip for such a silly reason. After all, the salt-stream was simply the salt-stream. It had been there as long as the village could remember. While it had grown a bit wider over these past few years, despite Striker’s whims it was still just a river of water. What could possibly be gained by seeing the pond in the mountains which was its source?
At last the band reached the westernmost edge of the village, where the last lonely tholos marked the line between civilization and vast, rolling plains. The thinnest of trails led through the brush toward a fishing spot some two miles north where Ku-aya’s brothers sometimes went to seek the delicate silverfish which her mother cooked into a delicious stew.
The two brothers turned and nodded. Uncle Kuwari promised, “We’ll be careful. We know it’s important to return safely to you with what we find. Watch for us in two weeks.”
Uncle Uselli nodded to Ku-aya’s father. “Take care of your family until we return. And then we will know better what to do next.”
Ku-aya’s father was as serious as she’d ever seen him. His gaze went to the sickle swords at the two men’s hips, then back into their eyes. His voice was gruff. “Thank you. Thank you both.”
The men’s gaze held his - and then they turned. They strode steadily down the dirt trail, their sandaled feet barely making a noise.
Ku-aya’s mother and father watched them for a moment, and then turned, heading back in the direction of their tholos.
Ku-aya found she could not leave. Her gaze followed her two uncles as they grew smaller ... smaller ... and then they passed around a stand of olive trees. They were gone.
Her throat went dry. Somehow this was different from their trip every summer down to the big marketplace on the shores of the lake, at the far end of their salt-river. That trip was to a bustling town where there were millers and potters, butchers and jewelry makers. The brothers would return with outrageous stories which Ku-aya could barely believe were true, if she hadn’t seen some of the evidence of it in the wares and supplies they brought back.
But this time Uncle Uselli and Uncle Kuwari were not heading east. They were not heading into civilization and safety. They were heading west, west, up into the dark mountains. Up into the wilderness of bandits. They were going where few ever ventured. All to look at a small pond which fed their salt-river.
What if something happened to them?
She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. She wished she had he security of Midnight at her side. The loyal dog always made her feel safe. He spent each night curled up against her on her mat within the curved stone wall of her tholos, keeping her protected and warm.
Her hand dropped idly to her side, as if she could scrunch his soft ears and bring ease to her heart.
There was a movement across the river, and she glanced over.
Burrukam was standing there, the twisting scar down his right cheek glinting in the morning sun. He’d had it since she could remember - at least since she was fairly young. Rumor was that his father had given it to him over some misdeed. There were none to tell that tale now. Burrukam’s mother had died perhaps five years ago, in the depths of a frozen winter, although the only way the villagers had known was that Burrukam had worked for two days to chisel a grave out of the frozen ground. And then a month later a second grave had been dug for the father. After that, the dog fights had come to an abrupt end and Burrukam had drawn in to himself. The stone dome-shaped house at the remote outskirts of the village had seemed even more desolate and lonely. But the goats remained fed, the small garden remained tended, and the villagers all but forgot that there was an inhabitant inside.
Yet here he stood.
Ku-aya looked him over in curiosity. He was broader built than Pu-dagan, with muscled arms and legs which spoke to an active life. His tunic was worn but carefully tended to. His thick braid of hair was glossy and dark. And his gaze -
She blushed without knowing why.
She lifted a hand to wave -
He stepped back, turned, and was gone.
* * *
The series continues with book 2, with The Bosphorus.
https://www.lisashea.com/noahflood/thebosphorus/
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