Lands of Red and Gold #26: The Sounds of Harmony
“The greatest of leaders speaks the least, and inspires the most. He does not demand obedience, he receives it. A lesser leader seeks respect, a greater leader knows that he will earn it. The greatest deeds of a leader are those which his followers perform without needing his instructions.”
- From Oora Gulalu [The Endless Road], a text composed in Tjibarr in the fifteenth century, and widely respected by both Plirite and Tjarrling believers
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Serpent Day, Cycle of Salt, 382nd Year of Harmony (4.10.382) [1] / 10 July 1621
Crescent Bay, The Island [Kingscote, Kangaroo Island]
Wind blew steadily from the north, swirling an irregular course across the city streets, up the hill slopes, and through the open doors of the temple. With it came the tang of salt, a reminder of the seas that formed the livelihood of all the Nangu. Perhaps it carried the sounds of the city streets, too, but they could not be heard. As with all proper houses of harmony, the Temple of the Five Winds supplied its own sounds.
Tinkles, ringing and thuds came from the chimes that hung on every exterior wall and in some of the open passages inside; a soothing irregular melody born of the endless breeze and marked in sounds of brass and wood. Underlying the loud but unpredictable chimes came the softer but steadier beat of hands striking stretched emu skin; the reliable rhythm of temple drums.
Yuma Tjula let the noises of the temple wash over him, cleansing his mind and bringing him closer to a state of harmony. So it always was when he came here. He was not a devout man, either in his own estimation or that of the priests who remarked on his attitude. Still, he had attended the Temple of the Five Winds since childhood, when duty called or when he needed guidance.
Such as now.
Yuma knelt in the north-easternmost chamber of the temple. Closest to the sun, given where it stood in the morning sky, and its light flowed into the room through the half-moon windows spaced along the walls. Beneath those openings, shapes had been carved from wood and attached to each wall; stylised depictions of a myriad of divine beings.
In the centre of the chamber, a gilded statue loomed large, but Yuma gave it little heed. The Good Man had mastered wisdom, but he had much loftier concerns than intervening on behalf of one repentant trading captain. Instead, Yuma had taken up a position beneath the ornately-carved forms of the Fire Brothers; ruby-eyed Carrak standing with burning sword held aloft, while diamond-eyed Burrayang knelt to turn over ashes into new life.
Head bowed, knees aching but ignored, Yuma shaped the litany of his soul into fitting words, that the Fire Brothers might hear his misdeeds and grant him guidance. He explained his inaction in the White City, far to the west. How the giant ships of the Raw Men had appeared in the harbours while his own vessel was there to trade.
His voice growing softer, his tone more despondent even to his own ears, Yuma admitted how he had failed to follow the third path, the path of decisiveness. He could have taken decisive action by contacting the Raw Men directly, or he could have waited properly, until they had the chance to contact him. Instead, he had taken a half-measure, neither truly decisive nor truly inactive, by finishing his trade and then departing. He had thought, in his own misguided mind, that he could return next season to make proper contact.
Instead, he had learned that in his absence the Raw Men had visited the Nangu who lived in the Foreign Quarter. They had spoken briefly to the resident Nangu, then departed. Their new trade agreement, proclaimed in stone in the White City, announced that the Raw Men were restricted to ports beyond Sunset Point, where they could not contact the Nangu.
Oh, the lost opportunity! Since that time, Yuma had come to the unfortunate realisation that his actions had been waal [ie bringing discord], due to his lack of proper decisiveness. No point asking the Fire Brothers to correct his mistake; if they were prepared to intercede and change the past, then it would have already been remade. Instead, he asked for them to guide him in proper decisiveness in the future. There would be more chances with these Raw Men, if he sought them, and if he acted properly when the moments were granted.
His prayers concluded, Yuma waited in silence for a long moment, straining to hear if he would receive any instructions. He heard nothing, no still small voice whispering beneath the sounds of harmony. All as he had more than half expected. If the Fire Brothers were going to guide him along the path, then he would need to be alert in the future; they offered nothing immediate.
Of course, he would also need to consider his own actions, and build his own knowledge of the paths. So it always was; the search for self-insight and greater understanding was a lifelong endeavour. He would not need to come to a temple for such striving, though. He would reflect on his own deeds, and ensure that he was guiding his own steps along the paths.
With his main purpose completed, Yuma rose, glad to give his weary knees rest. He moved to stand with bowed head beneath the statue of the Good Man, and muttered a few invocations of respect for his exalted knowledge. He walked around the statue to face west, then added a brief prayer of respect for all of his ancestors and descendants.
Yuma ambled silently through the corridors of the temple until he reached the eastern entrance. He exchanged a few polite, ritualised phrases with the two priests seated on either side of the doorway, then strode down the hillside path toward the main buildings of Crescent Bay.
As he hurried down the path, he still found time to look over the town, and the shining blue seas beyond. Crescent Bay itself had the look of stone and all too precious wood, while the sparkling water beyond was decorated with a half-dozen ships. Yuma classified them with an ease born of much experience at sea.
The one ship sailing in from the east was a day-farer, an ancient design whose shallow draft allowed it to be pulled up on any beach in case of a change in the weather. Its crew would have taken it on a fishing voyage to bring in some of the sea’s bounty. Hardly the grandest use of a ship, but one which might return a slight profit. The other five ships were sailing in from the north-west. They were all double-hulled regular ships, heavily laden with yams and other essential food from Pankala or some other Mutjing port.
Yuma’s own bloodline had ships taking part in that trade, he presumed, although he had not bothered to check anytime recently. Like most Nangu sailors, he had learned his craft on the regular round trips between the Island and the Seven Sisters [ie the Mutjing lands]. As soon as he became a captain, though, he took his ship elsewhere. No captain could earn a decent profit trading for food.
As he descended from the hill and strode through the town, people stepped out of his path. Not all of them would know him by name or sight, though he thought that most would; perhaps he flattered himself. Still, all of them could see the headwreath that held his hair back from his face. Dyed with sea purple [2], woven with Yadji gold-thread and studded with Maori jade and river sapphires, it proclaimed that he was a captain of great wealth and substance. Men blocked his path at their peril, and fortunately everyone today recognised it.
The white-gray granite walls of the Council Hall loomed large above him as he neared, although they lacked the ornateness of the Temple of the Five Winds, or most any other temple on the Island. Naturally. Few elders would allow their bloodlines to spend much of their hard-earned trading wealth into a building which those elders usually visited only once a year. Yet pious captains and elders would lavish much more of their fortunes to support the priests who balanced the harmony that allowed the Nangu to flourish.
The guards at the doors of the council chamber admitted him with nothing but a brief nod. All as it should be. As the third-most senior captain of the Tjula bloodline, Yuma had the right to attend any meeting of the Council, and hear what the elders decided. Perhaps even speak to influence them, given the opportunity.
Inside, a series of tables had been arranged into a rough circle. The tables bespoke more wealth than the rest of the chamber, since they were made from jarrah wood which had been shipped back from Tiayal [ie Atjuntja lands]. Twenty-one seats were arranged around these tables. One for the elder of each of the surviving bloodlines; everyone else in the room had to stand behind.
Seven of those seats were still empty when Yuma entered the room; those elders had yet to enter the chamber. Perhaps not all of the elders would be near the town to attend. Today marked an almost unheard of event; the Council had been called together outside of the usual annual meeting at the autumn equinox, halfway through the year. A sign of the importance which had been attached to the news out of the west, and another reminder to Yuma of the blunder he had made in committing a half-measure.
Yuma exchanged greetings with Wirnugal, elder of the Tjula, and with three other senior captains who had gathered for this meeting of the Council. Keeping his voice low, he asked, “Are all of the other elders expected?”
Wirnugal said, “The Manyilti and Wolalta elders will not be attending; they are both off the Island. All of the others should arrive soon.” His voice had an undertone of frustration; presumably the late-arriving elders were seeking to show their status by making others wait for them.
Yuma also wondered, absently, why the Manyilti and Wolalta elders were not anywhere on the Island. Elders rarely left the Island except for one of two reasons: to visit some holy sites in the Five Rivers, or to personally oversee some important trading venture.
Neither of those two elders were particularly pious, so Yuma doubted that their absence had anything to do with religious visits. That meant some new trade coup might well be in the offing. The port captain of Jugara, the gateway to the Five Rivers, was of the Manyilti bloodline, so perhaps their elder was negotiating new trade terms with some Tjibarr faction. Wolalta captains had won their greatest trading coups in voyages to the Spice Coast [ie the eastern Australian coastline]; might they have made some new discovery there?
His musings were cut short when a group of five elders arrived together. Suspicion hardened in his heart. Perhaps these elders had waited to enter together as a group to avoid any concerns of status. Or, more likely, they had been conducting private negotiations. Very unfortunate, in that case, since these elders also represented some of the most powerful bloodlines.
He knew them all, of course. Such as the most senior of the elders, titled the Lorekeeper because of his twin roles as rememberer of Council decisions and adjudicator of disputes. It made sense for him to arrive late. But the others did not have his seniority, only their pride and their wealth. It was not fitting for them to keep the rest of the elders waiting.
Punalta Warrikendi ambled to his seat, as if he would never be hurried. Probably not an act, in his case. Punalta was renowned as the most devout elder. He might almost have been a priest himself, and occasional rumours suggested that he planned to retire to one temple or another. It had never happened, though. Yuma suspected that Punalta preferred to remain on the Council and focus their minds on proper questions of harmony and perseverance.
The third elder wore a full beard, which was so rare for a Nangu that he was near universally known as the Beard. He had picked up that habit from when he was a trader who lived for many years in the Foreign Quarter of the White City. That time had given him many valuable connections amongst the Atjuntja. Under his aegis, the Kalendi had become one of the wealthiest bloodlines.
Still, Yuma thought that the Beard had become too much like an Atjuntja, and not just in ways as trivial as appearance. Rumours were rife that the Beard had acquired some of the other distasteful Atjuntja habits. If true, though, he indulged those habits only behind the closed walls of his city residence or in his manor overlooking the Narrows, and neither he nor his Mutjing mistresses spoke openly of his habits. The Beard also possessed a powerful rage which he used when challenged. So not even the priests dared to call him out on those rumours.
The fourth elder to take his seat had lighter skin than the norm for a Nangu, and a coarseness to his features which proclaimed his foreign heritage. Nakatta was the only elder who was not Island-born. A native Gunnagal from upriver Tjibarr, he had been adopted into the Muwanna bloodline and rose to prominence after several bold trading coups with his former countrymen. Under his auspices, the Muwanna continued to negotiate favourable trade terms with the ever-shifting factions of Tjibarr.
The fifth elder, Burra Liwang, had a peculiar way of stepping, moving his feet so silently and delicately that he gave the impression of sliding rather than walking. His effortless pace allowed him ample time to look over the room, offering friendly smiles to most of the elders, including Wirnugal. Those smiles offered some reassurance that the five elders had not been conducting private negotiations to the disadvantage of the other bloodlines.
Of course, Burra often played the role of peacemaker among the bloodlines. The role suited his temperament, and he was also helped by his bloodline’s holdings. The Liwang had relatively few trading ships. They obtained most of their wealth because they had the largest holdings on the Island itself, and controlled the largest proportion of local spice and dye production. Their main trade was with other bloodlines who would then export the dyes and spices. They had found it more convenient to establish a reputation for equal dealing with all other bloodlines, rather than needing to outdo rivals in foreign trade.
When Burra was seated, the Lorekeeper moved to his own chair. He nodded to the two empty chairs and said, “With your elders absent, will the most senior captains present of the Wolalta and Manyilti sit on their behalf?”
As the two captains moved into chairs, the Lorekeeper met the gaze of the black-clad priest who stood just inside the door. The priest moved to stand beside the Lorekeeper, and offered an opening invocation for the meeting, calling for all present to remember the wisdom of the Good Man and conduct themselves in accordance with the Sevenfold Path.
Servants moved around next, pouring gum cider into silver goblets for each seated man. It had to be gum cider, of course; offering any lesser beverage here would be an insult.
The Lorekeeper said, “The Council has been called together out of season to discuss this news of outlanders.” He provided a brief summary of the contact between these Raw Men, the Atjuntja, and the Nangu in the west. “So the Council must decide whether restrictions should be placed on contact and trade with these Raw Men.”
“A captain has the right to trade wherever he wishes,” the Beard said.
Contentiousness rang clearly in his voice, offering a warning. In some bloodlines, the elder was simply one strong voice among many. Among the Kalendi, though, the Beard’s word was absolute. If he took offence at an action, a feud could follow, or worse yet a vendetta.
“There is precedent for binding the bloodlines,” the Lorekeeper said, his voice calm. “In 183 [1422 AD], the Council agreed to restrict all contact with the Atjuntja to their designated trade ports, and to punish any captain who sought to trade elsewhere. That edict was allowed to lapse in 211 [1450 AD], and has been enforced by custom ever since.”
All as it should be, Yuma thought. Custom and familiarity made it easier for men to walk the right paths, which was why they were usually followed. Of course, the custom was adhered to in this case due to the unspoken threat that any bloodline who broke the Atjuntja trade edict would find every other bloodline turning on them.
The Lorekeeper added, “But the Council has that authority, if it so chooses.”
The Beard grunted, rather than offering any substantive answer. That was an even more ominous sign that he was determined to force his own way. He had the determination to push that into feud or vendetta, too.
Yuma hoped that the Beard could be persuaded to show restraint. Once there had been twenty-four bloodlines on the Island. Three had been destroyed utterly in vendettas, and over the centuries some others had come close to destruction. Bloodlines always competed with each other in commercial rivalries, but sometimes those rivalries became matters of pride or hatred. In those cases, a feud or vendetta could follow, with the knife replacing the trade bargain. No matter how much the priests decried them for bringing discord, vendettas could still be called, and inevitably turned out deadly for both sides. Not to mention for outsiders caught up in the chaos.
When he spoke, Nakatta’s voice still had a slight rasp which betrayed his foreign origins. “Before we consider that, we must know more of these far westerners. What has been seen of them?”
“Only their one visit to the White City,” said the Lorekeeper. “Everything else is rumour and wild tales.”
“One should never give too much heed to rumours,” the Beard said. That remark produced a number of carefully blank faces around the chamber.
“These Raw Men are real,” said Punalta. “Yet they are also strange. Strangeness leads to uncertainty, to tale-mongering, and to exaggeration. Rumours are inevitable, in such circumstances. We must not allow wild tales to lead us to discord.”
“It is nature of their strangeness that concerns me,” Nakatta said. “Every people have their own customs which appear strange to others, especially peoples who have not learnt the paths of harmony. Are these Raw Men strange only because they are different, or because they have crafts and knowledge that we lack, as our forefathers did not know of the working of iron before we learned from the Atjuntja?”
A sign! Yuma realised, at that moment. The Fire Brothers must have been listening after all, and allowed him to see it. He tapped his foot on the stone of the floor, a polite way of signalling that he wanted to speak.
Wirnugal, fortunately, was alert. “I wish one of my captains to be permitted to speak,” he said.
The Lorekeeper glanced around the elders. When none of them objected, he signalled for Yuma to speak.
Yuma thought for a moment, considering how much information he should reveal. Knowledge was so often a trade good, often the most valuable of all. Yet he needed to be decisive, and knowledge was of no use if it was never acted on. “These Raw Men have some crafts which we lack. Shipbuilding, of a certainty, and perhaps others. I have seen their mighty vessels in the White City, large enough to make a great-ship seem small. Of the other rumours I cannot speak with assurance, but they are said to have great knowledge of weapons, too.”
“How fast are those ships?” asked the captain sitting for the Wolalta elder; Yuma did not know his name.
“I cannot be certain; I saw them only within the harbour. Their sails are large, though. I expect that they can run very fast with the wind. Into the wind, I think that our ships would be more agile.”
“How would they have built ships so large?” another elder asked, but the Lorekeeper signalled for silence.
The Lorekeeper said, “These questions should be answered, but not in this time and place. Thank you for your words to the elders, Yuma Tjula.”
Nakatta said, “Shipbuilding or not, we must know these Raw Men’s interests. Have they comes as wanderers [explorers] or as traders?”
“Both, so far as we can tell,” the Lorekeeper said. “They have concluded a trade agreement with the King of Kings. But they came first as wanderers, and wanderers they will no doubt continue to be.”
“Will they wander to the island, then?” Nakatta asked.
That question provoked some heated discussion. The Beard led a group of about a third of the elders who exclaimed about the myriad opportunities available for trade with these new Raw Man, whoever they were. Nakatta led a similar number of elders who pointed out the threat of competition, and the dangers of having these outlanders sail directly to the Island.
Yuma wondered about the dangers himself. The only other true seafarers in the world were the Maori, and they did not sail further than the Cider Isle. That had always left the Nangu free to trade and sail elsewhere, whenever they pleased. Without competition, and without threat.
Still, if these Raw Men had such marvellous trade goods, the wealth that they could bring would be fantastic. Even if they had superior knowledge, well, the Nangu could learn from them. They had learned ironworking from the Atjuntja, and, if the old stories were true, other arts of seafaring from the Maori. They could learn again, if they needed.
After the elders had argued for a while, Punalta said, “This debate ignores the essential question. Do these Raw Men know of the Good Man and the Sevenfold Path?”
The Lorekeeper said, “No, not according to the reports. They worship three gods like the Yadji, not two like the Atjuntja. They think that their gods’ will is absolute, that nothing men can do will change their destiny. They are even worse than the Atjuntja, apparently, for they believe that all men are depraved and will act to bring discord.”
“Then they must be taught the truth,” Punalta said. “If we do not teach them to act according to the Sevenfold Path, then the consequences of their disharmony will not be limited to them; they will bring chaos and disruption to us all.”
“So, then, we must contact and trade with them,” the Beard said.
“And invite them to bring their disharmony to us?” Nakatta answered.
Burra Liwang, who had been silent throughout the long argument, tapped his foot on the stone. An unusual action for an elder, but it got everybody’s attention. Burra said, “These Raw Men will come anyway, whether we hide or not. They already know we are here. The Atjuntja would have told them of us even if they had not met our own people. They are wanderers, so they will come. If so, better that we contact them in the west than on our own Island.”
As he usually did, Burra had found a way to bring the elders to agreement. With him guiding the discussion, the Council agreed to circumspectly search for a way to contact the Raw Men’s trading posts in the western Atjuntja lands, when they were established.
If that failed, then captains would be permitted to sail into the west beyond Sunset Point, if they wanted to brave the endless winds. Any captains who wanted to do so could see if they could sail directly to the Raw Men’s homelands. However, the Council ordered that any west-venturing captains must make absolutely certain that they gave the Atjuntja no warning, and that they did not land anywhere on western Atjuntja lands. That would break the Nangu’s own trade agreements with the Atjuntja, and in a way which brought no gain.
With that agreement, the Lorekeeper called the Council meeting to an end.
Yuma kept his face carefully impassive, but he now knew what he had to do.
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[1] The Gunnagal calendar (adopted by the Nangu) divides the year into 30 cycles of 12 days, with an additional 5 or 6 intercalary days at the end of the year. Each of the days and cycles are both named and numbered. So 4.10.382 is the fourth day in the tenth cycle of the year 382, ie Serpent Day in the Cycle of Salt. There are also “months” of 30 days, which overlap this timing and are used for some social and religious purposes, but which are not used in the standard version of naming and numbering days.
[2] Sea purple refers to a dye made from the large rock shell, (Thais orbita), a releative of the Mediterranean sea snails that produced purple and blue dyes which were extremely valued commodities in classical times. Even to the Nangu, sea purple is a rare and valuable dye; while there are no formal restrictions on who can wear it, the price it commands means that only elders, the greatest trade captains, and their most favoured wives and mistresses can afford to do so.
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Thoughts?
