Soon Lara spotted other landmarks—an outcropping of limestone
beside the path that had a silhouette like a man’s face, a marshy spot
beside the river where the waterfowl were easily startled, a tall tree
that looked like a man with his arms upraised. They were drawing near to
the place where there was an island in the river. The island was a good
spot to make camp. They would sleep on the island tonight.
Lara
had been back and forth along the river path many times in her short
life. Her people had not created the path—it had always been there, like
the river—but their deerskin-shod feet and the wooden wheels of their
handcarts kept the path well worn. Lara’s people were salt traders, and
their livelihood took them on a continual journey.
At
the mouth of the river, the little group of half a dozen intermingled
families gathered salt from the great salt beds beside the sea. They
groomed and sifted the salt and loaded it into handcarts. When the carts
were full, most of the group would stay behind, taking shelter amid
rocks and simple lean-tos, while a band of fifteen or so of the heartier
members set out on the path that ran alongside the river.
With
their precious cargo of salt, the travelers crossed the coastal
lowlands and traveled toward the mountains. But Lara’s people never
reached the mountaintops; they traveled only as far as the foothills.
Many people lived in the forests and grassy meadows of the foothills,
gathered in small villages. In return for salt, these people would give
Lara’s people dried meat, animal skins, cloth spun from wool, clay pots,
needles and scraping tools carved from bone, and little toys made of
wood.
Their bartering done, Lara and her people would travel back down the river path to the sea. The cycle would begin again.
It
had always been like this. Lara knew no other life. She traveled back
and forth, up and down the river path. No single place was home. She
liked the seaside, where there was always fish to eat, and the gentle
lapping of the waves lulled her to sleep at night. She was less fond of
the foothills, where the path grew steep, the nights could be cold, and
views of great distances made her dizzy. She felt uneasy in the
villages, and was often shy around strangers. The path itself was where
she felt most at home. She loved the smell of the river on a hot day,
and the croaking of frogs at night. Vines grew amid the lush foliage
along the river, with berries that were good to eat. Even on the hottest
day, sundown brought a cool breeze off the water, which sighed and sang
amid the reeds and tall grasses.
Of all the places along the path, the area they were approaching, with the island in the river, was Lara’s favorite.
The
terrain along this stretch of the river was mostly flat, but in the
immediate vicinity of the island, the land on the sunrise side was like a
rumpled cloth, with hills and ridges and valleys. Among Lara’s people,
there was a wooden baby’s crib, suitable for strapping to a cart, that
had been passed down for generations. The island was shaped like that
crib, longer than it was wide and pointed at the upriver end, where the
flow had eroded both banks. The island was like a crib, and the group of
hills on the sunrise side of the river were like old women mantled in
heavy cloaks gathered to have a look at the baby in the crib—that was
how Lara’s father had once described the lay of the land.
Larth
spoke like that all the time, conjuring images of giants and monsters
in the landscape. He could perceive the spirits, called numina, that
dwelled in rocks and trees. Sometimes he could speak to them and hear
what they had to say. The river was his oldest friend and told him where
the fishing would be best. From whispers in the wind he could foretell
the next day’s weather. Because of such skills, Larth was the leader of
the group.
“We’re close to the island, aren’t we, Papa?” said Lara.
“The
hills. First we start to see the hills, off to the right. The hills
grow bigger. And just before we come to the island, we can see the
silhouette of that fig tree up there, along the crest of that hill.”
“Good
girl!” said Larth, proud of his daughter’s memory and powers of
observation. He was a strong, handsome man with flecks of gray in his
black beard. His wife had borne several children, but all had died very
young except Lara, the last, whom his wife had died bearing. Lara was
very precious to him. Like her mother, she had golden hair. Now that she
had reached the age of childbearing, Lara was beginning to display the
fullness of a woman’s hips and breasts. It was Larth’s greatest wish
that he might live to see his own grandchildren. Not every man lived
that long, but Larth was hopeful. He had been healthy all his life,
partly, he believed, because he had always been careful to show respect
to the numina he encountered on his journeys.
Respecting
the numina was important. The numen of the river could suck a man under
and drown him. The numen of a tree could trip a man with its roots, or
drop a rotten branch on his head. Rocks could give way underfoot,
chuckling with amusement at their own treachery. Even the sky, with a
roar of fury, sometimes sent down fingers of fire that could roast a man
like a rabbit on a spit, or worse, leave him alive but robbed of his
senses. Larth had heard that the earth itself could open and swallow a
man; though he had never actually seen such a thing, he nevertheless
performed a ritual each morning, asking the earth’s permission before he
went striding across it.
“There’s something so
special about this place,” said Lara, gazing at the sparkling river to
her left and then at the rocky, tree-spotted hills ahead and to her
right. “How was it made? Who made it?”
Larth
frowned. The question made no sense to him. A place was never made, it
simply was. Small features might change over time. Uprooted by a storm, a
tree might fall into the river. A boulder might decide to tumble down
the hillside. The numina that animated all things went about reshaping
the landscape from day to day, but the essential things never changed,
and had always existed: the river, the hills, the sky, the sun, the sea,
the salt beds at the mouth of the river.
He was
trying to think of some way to express these thoughts to Lara, when a
deer, drinking at the river, was startled by their approach. The deer
bolted up the brushy bank and onto the path. Instead of running to
safety, the creature stood and stared at them. As clearly as if the
animal had whispered aloud, Larth heard the words “Eat me.” The deer was
offering herself.
Larth turned to shout an order,
but the most skilled hunter of the group, a youth called Po, was
already in motion. Po ran forward, raised the sharpened stick he always
carried and hurled it whistling through the air between Larth and Lara.
A
heartbeat later, the spear struck the deer’s breast with such force
that the creature was knocked to the ground. Unable to rise, she
thrashed her neck and flailed her long, slender legs. Po ran past Larth
and Lara. When he reached the deer, he pulled the spear free and stabbed
the creature again. The deer released a stifled noise, like a gasp, and
stopped moving.
There was a cheer from the group. Instead of yet another dinner of fish from the river, tonight there would be venison.
The
distance from the riverbank to the island was not great, but at this
time of year—early summer—the river was too high to wade across. Lara’s
people had long ago made simple rafts of branches lashed together with
leather thongs, which they left on the riverbanks, repairing and
replacing them as needed. When they last passed this way, there had been
three rafts, all in good condition, left on the east bank. Two of the
rafts were still there, but one was missing.
“I
see it! There—pulled up on the bank of the island, almost hidden among
those leaves,” said Po, whose eyes were sharp. “Someone must have used
it to cross over.”
“Perhaps they’re still on the
island,” said Larth. He did not begrudge others the use of the rafts,
and the island was large enough to share. Nonetheless, the situation
required caution. He cupped his hands to his mouth and gave a shout. It
was not long before a man appeared on the bank of the island. The man
waved.
“Do we know him?” said Larth, squinting.
“I don’t think so,” said Po. “He’s young—my age or younger, I’d say. He looks strong.”
“Very
strong!” said Lara. Even from this distance, the young stranger’s
brawniness was impressive. He wore a short tunic without sleeves, and
Lara had never seen such arms on a man.
Po, who was small and wiry, looked at Lara sidelong and frowned. “I’m not sure I like the look of this stranger.”
“Why not?” said Lara. “He’s smiling at us.”
In fact, the young man was smiling at Lara, and Lara alone.
His
name was Tarketios. Much more than that, Larth could not tell, for the
stranger spoke a language which Larth did not recognize, in which each
word seemed as long and convoluted as the man’s name. Understanding the
deer had been easier than understanding the strange noises uttered by
this man and his two companions! Even so, they seemed friendly, and the
three of them presented no threat to the more numerous salt traders.
Tarketios
and his two older companions were skilled metalworkers from a region
some two hundred miles to the north, where the hills were rich with
iron, copper, and lead. They had been on a trading journey to the south
and were returning home. Just as the river path carried Larth’s people
from the seashore to the hills, so another path, perpendicular to the
river, traversed the long coastal plain. Because the island provided an
easy place to ford the river, it was here that the two paths
intersected. On this occasion, the salt traders and the metal traders
happened to arrive at the island on the same day. Now they met for the
first time.
The two groups made separate camps at
opposite ends of the island. As a gesture of friendship, speaking with
his hands, Larth invited Tarketios and the others to share the venison
that night. As the hosts and their guests feasted around the roasting
fire, Tarketios tried to explain something of his craft. Firelight
glittered in Lara’s eyes as she watched Tarketios point at the flames
and mime the act of hammering. Firelight danced across the flexing
muscles of his arms and shoulders. When he smiled at her, his grin was
like a boast. She had never seen teeth so white and so perfect.
Po saw the looks the two exchanged and frowned. Lara’s father saw the same looks and smiled.
The
meal was over. The metal traders, after many gestures of gratitude for
the venison, withdrew to their camp at the far side of the island.
Before he disappeared into the shadows, Tarketios looked over his
shoulder and gave Lara a parting grin.
While the
others settled down to sleep, Larth stayed awake a while longer, as was
his habit. He liked to watch the fire. Like all other things, fire
possessed a numen that sometimes communicated with him, showing him
visions. As the last of the embers faded into darkness, Larth fell
asleep.
Larth blinked. The flames, which had
dwindled to almost nothing, suddenly shot up again. Hot air rushed over
his face. His eyes were seared by white flames brighter than the sun.
Amid
the dazzling brightness, he perceived a thing that levitated above the
flames. It was a masculine member, disembodied but nonetheless rampant
and upright. It bore wings, like a bird, and hovered in midair. Though
it seemed to be made of flesh, it was impervious to the flames.
Larth
had seen the winged phallus before, always in such circumstances, when
he stared at a fire and entered a dream state. He had even given it a
name, or more precisely, the thing had planted its name in his mind:
Fascinus.
Fascinus was not like the numina that
animated trees, stones, or rivers. Those numina existed without names.
Each was bound to the object in which it resided, and there was little
to differentiate one from another. When such numina spoke, they could
not always be trusted. Sometimes they were friendly, but at other times
they were mischievous or even hostile.
Fascinus
was different. It was unique. It existed in and of itself, without
beginning or end. Clearly, from its form, it had something to do with
life and the origin of life, yet it seemed to come from a place beyond
this world, slipping for a few moments through a breach opened by the
heat of the dancing flames. An appearance by Fascinus was always
significant. The winged phallus never appeared without giving Larth an
answer to a dilemma that had been troubling him, or planting an
important new thought in his mind. The guidance given to him by Fascinus
had never led Larth astray.
Elsewhere, in distant
lands—Greece, Israel, Egypt—men and women worshiped gods and goddesses.
Those people made images of their gods, told stories about them, and
worshiped them in temples. Larth had never met such people. He had never
even heard of the lands where they lived, and he had never encountered
or conceived of a god. The very concept of a deity such as those other
men worshiped was unknown to Larth, but the closest thing to a god in
his imagination and experience was Fascinus.