Lands of Red and Gold
- Thread starter Jared
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True, although turkeys also had a Spanish name (pavo, derived from Latin) for them which was even sometimes used in Mexico itself. Guinea pigs are more complicated, in that they have two names which are sometimes used, one of which (cary) is derived from a native name.
Plus, of course, emus haven't really been farmed much outside of Australia, but the native name for them was still displaced by a name of European origin, even within Australia, while other native names for animals (eg kangaroo) have not.
So, in other words, yes, having Aururian animals exported as new domesticates may mean that they're more likely to acquire non-native names, but there's no guarantees.
Yes, emus aren't actually that stupid, although they do have a reputation for it. Mostly due to their insane and sometimes suicidal curiosity.
Thanks. I did think that there needed to be some balance in terms of showing the native perspective, not just the European. There will be a bit more in terms of the native perspective in subsequent posts, too; they will be showing more detail of the interactions between the Dutch, Atjuntja, and others.
The cycle calendar came from the Gunnagal like of the number 12, which they view as highly significant. So they divided the year into cycles of 12 days. (Much like the Mesoamericans thought of 20 as significant.)
The cycles weren't originally connected to the moon, but the Nangu and others also use a "month" of two and a half cycles (30 days) which roughly corresponds to the period of one full month. Their calendar isn't anchored to it, though, so they don't start each "month" at a full moon or half moon or anything like that. (Their calendar is actually anchored to the equinoxes, rather than the moon.)
Many, based on a combination of their seemingly magical trading goods (especially clocks) and exaggerated rumours of the first violent clash between Atjuntja and Dutchmen. They interpreted firearms as the Dutch being able to bind kuru (spirits, more or less) to their will. That leads to stories of the Dutch being able to bind kuru to serve other magical functions, too, such as call thunder, start and finish fires, control winds to allow their ships to function, and so on.
Not everyone believes these stories, of course, but they are repeated wildly, especially in the first couple of years, before people have much contact with Europeans.
I didn't have Venice particularly in mind, but come to think of it, yes, Venice fits very well. The other influences I was thinking of were certain aspects of early Iceland (especially the feuds between chieftains, and their tradition of outlawry, which may become more important anon), the Phoenicians for the tradiing aspects, and some aspects of ancient Athens for its reliance on imported food. The Pliri religion is derived from an extrapolation of various aspects of traditional Aboriginal beliefs (the Fire Brothers come straight from that source) and some resonances with various aspects of Buddhism, Taoism, Shintoism, and various other traditional religions.
mojojojo
Gone Fishin'
I saw lands of red and gold on the first page and was overjoyed at the thought another update had been posted.
Imagine my disappointmentEverytime you bump a beloved thread and create false hopes in the fans the Fire Brothers kill a baby Quoll.
Lands of Red and Gold #27: Amidst The Falling Stars
Lands of Red and Gold #27: Amidst The Falling Stars
“When tillage begins, other arts follow. The farmers, therefore, are the founders of human civilization.”
- Daniel Webster, “Remarks on Agriculture”
* * *
Second Harvest Season, 23rd Year of King of Kings Kepiuc Tjaanuc [November 1625]
Near Seal Point [Geraldton, Western Australia]
Cerulean skies above, the boundless light of the Source unmarred by clouds. The bountiful illumination stirred the heat from the soil and drove any meddlesome kuru into refuge of shadows or underground hideaways. Warmth filled the world from horizon to endless horizon in all the sweat-inducing heat of second harvest, if not quite the baking dryness of full summer [1].
A golden time, or so it should be, thought Ngutta son of Palkana. With his family, he stood among the wealth-trees [wattles] on the western edge of their holdings. No longer did the trees bloom golden, but their fallen petals still coated the ground in a reminder of the faded flowers. New shoots sprouted from where the flowers had been, small branches which ended in long pods. The pods were light green except where they had started to turn brown at their edges, and stood out in contrast with the much darker green of the tiny leaves.
Gold still sparkled from the wealth-trees, occasional flashes from where the first drops of gum oozed from the bark of the trunk and lower branches. After the main harvest had been completed, Ngutta would return with his sons to prune the trees and cut gashes into the bark at carefully chosen points, to return a much larger yield of gum. For now, though, they had other work to do.
After so many years, Ngutta and his family went about their tasks in smooth routine. His two youngest daughters – the only ones left in his household after their elder sisters had departed on their marriages – and his younger wife laid down mats around the base of one wealth-tree, then moved on to the next.
Behind them followed his elder wife and the two youngest of the four sons who still lived beneath his roof. They used long hooked poles to shake the branches, releasing the pods to fall to the waiting mats. A few stray leaves, twigs, insects and other detritus fell with the pods. The pole-carriers ignored that, simply making sure that all of the pods had been shaken loose before moving on to the next tree where more mats waited ready for them.
Ngutta followed with his eldest and third eldest sons. He still missed his second son, who had gone to Seal Point to work for the Atjuntja and find a town-born wife, despite Ngutta’s misgivings. But that absence would not impair the harvest; his remaining sons knew their roles.
He and his elder sons collected the mats, and shook them carefully. The mats had been woven with small gaps, so that most of the leaves and other small material fell through the holes. They emptied the seed pods into canvas bags, and handed the mats to his younger sons, who had returned to collect them and carry them ahead. Then Ngutta and his elder sons carried the bags to the next tree to repeat the process.
When all of the bags were full, the whole family would gather to carry them back to the nearest storehouse. There the seed pods could be until they popped open in a few weeks, with the wealth-seeds going into storage and the empty pods used to feed ducks and noroons [emus].
The rhythm of the tree harvest was ancient. Ngutta had learned it from his father, who had learned it from his father before him, and back an uncounted number of generations. It had served him well all of his life. Even in drought years, the wealth-trees still produced a harvest of seeds, albeit a smaller one.
Now, though, he wondered if all of their effort would be futile.
Ngutta had always thought of himself as a successful manager of his family’s holdings. He knew how to divide his lands and rotate his crops so that he always received a good harvest of two kinds of wealth-seeds, of red yams, and warran yams. Depending on the year and his needs, he ensured yields of flax, of indigo, or of quandongs. When there were problems with fire, drought or poor soils, he knew what to plant or what to leave unharvested so that the bounty of the earth would be sustained.
For the first time, though, his biggest problem was not harvesting crops, but storing crops.
The last few years had been strange ones. Rumours permeated the Middle Country, speaking of raw-skinned strangers who had come from the west, and who had brought goods with them to match anything provided by the Islanders. With the strangers had come other tales, of new maladies that claimed lives or left their victims disfigured, of ill-favoured omens witnessed among the stars, of displaced kuru crossing over from the liquid eternity, and about the Lord turning more of his attention to the King of Kings’ dominions.
Ngutta did not know how much credence to give those rumours, but he knew the affliction which was ruining his family’s holdings.
Rats.
Rats had always been a problem of sorts for raiding stored food. But their numbers could usually be contained by farm quolls and occasional hunts by himself and his family when farm work permitted.
A new kind of rat had appeared around his farm this year, though. Black and alien. No larger than the more familiar kinds, but much less shy around people, and much more numerous. The farm quolls ate until they were full, gorging themselves on rats, but the rats kept breeding, and kept eating. Much of the first harvest of wealth-seeds had already been damaged, and Ngutta had little more confidence for this crop. As for what he would do when the Atjuntja came to demand their tribute, he did not know.
As he laboured to collect the wealth-seeds, Ngutta had an even more unwelcome thought. When ill fortune became prevalent enough, the Atjuntja would think that the Lord had turned more of his attention toward the King of Kings’ dominions. If that happened, then there would be calls for volunteers for sacrifice. Many volunteers. And if volunteers were not forthcoming, what would the Atjuntja do?
Ngutta did not know, but despite the heat of second harvest and of his labour beneath the Source, he still felt chilled.
* * *
“In nothing do men more nearly approach the gods than in giving health to men.”
- Cicero
* * *
Eagle Day, Cycle of Life, 387th Year of Harmony (12.21.387) / 27 November 1626
Milgawee (White City) [Albany, Western Australia]
Tiayal (the Middle Country) [western coast of Australia]
Lopitja, called the Red by some, had travelled far and wide within the Five Rivers, and even beyond. It was both a privilege and a necessity for one of the most acclaimed physicians in the world. In his travels he had seen many things, and accomplished many things.
Yet never had he travelled so far, seen so much, or, in his own estimation at least, accomplished so much.
A few months before, Lopitja had visited the Island to seek the wisdom of the priests at the Temple of Broken Chimes. A rare visit for a Gunnagal, but then he had always followed the Sevenfold Path, even if not in quite the same way as the Islanders, and he had found the priests’ advice useful in the past.
The visit had been purely for Lopitja’s own insight. Rarely if ever did the Islanders bother to consult Gunnagal physicians – which was their loss – and in any case, few physicians were willing to leave the Five Rivers for the purposes of medical consultation. So Lopitja had been astonished when one of the Islander elders had asked for his professional advice.
He had been tempted to refuse, since the request had involved much more than a simple consultation. Even among the few physicians who travelled beyond the Five Rivers, none in living memory had committed to the risks of a long Islander voyage. The Islanders were seafarers like no others within the circles of the world, but even their ships sometimes failed to reach their destinations. Especially into the winds and storms of a voyage to the far west.
The Islander elder had been persuasive, though. He was Gunnagal-born himself, and he understood the value of physicians. As should anyone who came from the Five Rivers. Lopitja had accepted, out of a combination of curiosity, lucrative compensation for his time, the chance to extend his learning, and the knowledge that having an Islander elder owe him a favour was no small blessing.
So Lopitja had found himself in the White City, the place beyond the western storms. Tales of that distant city had been exaggerated, or so he had always thought. He had found out how wrong he was. The White City was larger even that Tjibarr of the Lakes, more ornate than Garrkimang with its ancient glories of the long-vanished Empire. A tribute to the boundless power of the King of Kings, who wielded so much more authority than any monarch in the Five Rivers, or even the Yadji Regent.
Still, for all of the splendour of the City Between the Waters, he had come here to examine people, not buildings. A new affliction had struck the Atjuntja lands, one severe enough that the Islanders had thought it worth sending for a Gunnagal physician.
And so Lopitja had come. Now he had accomplished something which no other physician had achieved since the great Dulabul: he had diagnosed the symptoms of a new bushfire disease [epidemic disease]. The corpus of physicians’ knowledge included many maladies, but most of those were slow-burning, afflicting only a few individuals but persisting for years.
Bushfire diseases were, fortunately, much rarer. When they struck, they spread very quickly, killing thousands or tens of thousands and burning their way across the world. So far as Lopitja had known, so far as any Gunnagal physician had known, there were only two: blue-sleep and Marnitja.
Now there was a third.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands were dying in the White City from this new affliction, and an uncountable number in the countryside beyond. Local rumours linked this bushfire disease to many sources, but Lopitja cared nothing for rumours, and still less for the misguided Atjuntja belief that any ill event was due to the Lord’s will.
This new bushfire disease was a severe affliction, but it had nothing to do with the actions of some god. Like all maladies, it was indirectly an effect of discord somewhere in the world, but the disease itself was simply a physical manifestation of that discord. All physical aspects of the world could be understood, and in the case of diseases, sometimes even contained or treated.
A bell rang three times. Among the Atjuntja, that was a polite way of announcing that someone of great importance had arrived and wanted to be admitted. The Islanders who lived in the Foreign Quarter had adopted the same habit, it seemed.
Lopitja left the sickroom where the last afflicted survivors had been gathered to rest and recover their strength.
Inside the antechamber of the sickhouse, the Islander elder, Nakatta, waited with barely-concealed impatience. After a brief exchange of polite greetings, Nakatta said, “You now understand this malady?”
“With as much wisdom as the Good Man can grant in such a short time of learning,” Lopitja said. He paused, wondering how many details he should inflict on the elder.
“I have called it swelling-fever,” he said. The Atjuntja gave it many other names, but it was a physician’s privilege to name a new illness which he described. “It is marked by severe swelling, like so” – he gestured to show swelling which started on both cheeks and ran down under the chin – “and pain in the jaw and head. Some men swell around their manhood, too. Many recover after that. Those who do not recover will suffer fever, afflictions of the head, and sometimes of the intestines, leading to vomiting. Some will die of the fever, or in delirium which is like a lesser form of Marnitja.”
“Will this affliction spread to the Island?” the elder asked.
Lopitja said, “I cannot be sure. But I can tell you that if any men on your ships show the signs which I have described, you must not allow that ship to land. It must remain offshore until a cycle [twelve days] has passed after the last person has shown any of the signs of swelling-fever. Only then can the passengers be allowed to return to the shore.”
Nakatta said, “Will that be enough?”
“I hope so,” Lopitja said, but he could offer no stronger reassurance than that.
* * *
“Sacrifice still exists everywhere, and everywhere the elect of each generation suffers for the salvation of the rest.”
- Henri Frederic Amiel
* * *
August 1631
The White City, Tiayal
Drums beat out a slow two-beat, the rhythm echoing back and forth across the Third Audience Hall. The hall’s purpose was exactly as its name signified, the third-largest audience chamber in the Palace; the King of Kings had ordered its name changed from the former title of Hall of Lorikeets.
The Third Hall could hold over two thousand people who had come before the King of Kings. Only a relative handful of nobles, officials and attendants were gathered here today. Namai of the Urdera, governor of Archers Nest, waited in their midst. He vaguely thought that it would be better to hold this audience in one of the many smaller chambers in the Palace. But then, apart from his oddly prosaic preference in names, the King of Kings had always thought that something which was worth doing was worth overdoing.
The echoing drums shifted to a three-beat, a warning of who approached. Namai lowered his head slightly in preparation.
A few moments later, the drums changed to a staccato four-beat, and the herald proclaimed, “Lower your eyes! He comes among you! Lower your eyes! He comes among you, the blessed of the Lady, the Voice of Divinity, the mightiest in the mortal realms, the occupant of the Petal Throne, the one who has no equal, the King of Kings, his exalted majesty Kepiuc Tjaanuc!”
Namai lowered his head until he saw only the floor in front of him. Around him, everyone else did the same. He heard, rather than saw, the King of Kings enter the chamber and sit on the less ornate representation of the true Petal Throne. While he did, he strove to keep his breathing soft and regular. No matter what fate the King of Kings had in mind for him, he would not reveal any fear or uncertainty.
The herald announced, “Namai, scion of the Urdera, you may raise your eyes and approach the throne.”
As Namai walked toward the King of Kings, he struggled to keep his footsteps steady. The herald had not called him the governor of Archers Nest. That omission could hardly be accidental. Namai had always thought his governorship in such a distant garrison-city had been a sign of the King of Kings’ disfavour, being banished from the glories and comforts of the White City. Even having first pick of the Raw Men’s trading goods did not alleviate his sense of exile. Still, how much worse could things be if he was to be stripped of the title in such public circumstances?
Namai stopped seven paces from the throne, and raised his head to meet the King of Kings’ gaze.
His exalted majesty, Kepiuc Tjaanuc, wore clothes and head-dress of perfumed splendour, as he always did. Namai knew better than to look for any meaning there. But he noticed the gray in the King of Kings’ beard, the increasing web of lines which marked his forehead and cheeks. Time was always both a friend and an enemy; it wore a man down to nothing, and then allowed him rebirth. For this life, though, it had become the King of Kings’ enemy.
The King of Kings kept his face expressionless, and gave no word of greeting. Instead, he made some gestures with his right hand. Lerunna, the chamberlain of the palace, stepped forward to stand beside the throne. “His exalted majesty asks you to tell him the state of his country of Archers Nest.”
Oh, the humiliation! Namai made an effort to keep his face still, but he doubted that he succeeded. The King of Kings had refused to speak directly to him! Namai was of the blessed; as a scion of a noble house, it was his birthright. He was permitted to hear the Voice of Divinity... yet the King of Kings would not countenance it. And again, there had been no reference to Namai’s rank of governor of Archers Nest.
Nor could Namai tell the King of Kings anything which he did not already know. Namai had been astute in sending parchments – and more recently, paper traded from the Raw Men– advising the White City of the troubles which plagued Archers Nest and its environs.
“Archers Nest is both favoured and afflicted. The ships of the Raw Men call there often, engaging in the trade which your exalted majesty has permitted. They have brought many wondrous new things – steel, cotton cloth, donkeys, Coromandel works. Yet strange new afflictions have come with them, claiming the lives of many of your exalted majesty’s subjects. A swelling sickness – the little death [mumps]. Plagues of sores, rashes, and fevers, leading to broken men [syphilis]. The red cough [tuberculosis] spreads through the country. Many fields lie untended or have been abandoned for want of workers. Endless infestations of rats have ruined many storehouses. The tribute to your exalted majesty has been reduced.”
Lerunna glanced at the King of Kings, then said, “These plagues have not all been confined to Archers Nest. Perhaps you have suffered worst, but all of his exalted majesty’s dominions have been afflicted. But what have you done to protect his exalted majesty’s interests?”
“Everything I can,” Namai said. “I have consulted the omens, and been diligent in following them. I have ordered more quolls bred, and more ratcatchers trained. Builders have been ordered to strengthen storehouses and leave other construction work for a more auspicious time. I have released more peasants from garrison labour to help harvest the fields.”
“Yet the troubles continue,” Lerunna said.
It was not a question, so Namai simply raised his right palm to show agreement.
The King of Kings gestured again, then Lerunna said, “The Lord has turned his attention to the mortal realms. Many sacrifices have been made, but the troubles continue. His exalted majesty asks what should be done to appease Him.”
Namai shivered, despite all of his efforts at self-control. He had grown up with the language of the court, even if he had not been able to put this knowledge to proper use during his long years of exile. He knew a call for a volunteer when he heard one. And with the troubles which afflicted Tiayal, this would not be a call simply for a sacrifice to the pain.
No, this was a call for a sacrifice to the death. That much, Namai was not willing to do. His long years in exile had been sacrifice enough, as far as he was concerned. He would prefer to let other nobles sacrifice themselves when the blood of peasants had failed.
Except that the King of Kings would not be satisfied with that. Clearly, Namai was the chosen sacrifice, and the alternative was to be publicly humiliated by being stripped of his rank as governor. Unless...
Namai said, “It is these Raw Men who have brought the Lord’s attention.”
Lerunna said coldly, “His exalted majesty will not order the Raw Men to trade no more with the Middle Country.”
Namai noted that the chamberlain had not bothered to consult with the King of Kings before answering that question. That made him wonder what other politics troubled the court. The plagues were worst around Archers Nest, but they had also reached the White City. The people must be unhappy. Were the nobles, too? Yet the nobles would also be the ones who received most of the wondrous new goods from the Raw Men, and would be greatly aggrieved if they lost this source of wealth. If the King of Kings ordered trade cut off, how secure would he be on the Petal Throne?
Still, that would not help his own situation. Namai said, “If the Raw Men are the ones who have brought the Lord’s attention, then it can only be their blood which appeases Him.”
That suggestion brought the King of Kings’ eyes back to meet Namai’s gaze. “No outlander has ever been called to sacrifice himself to the Lord,” the King of Kings said.
“No outlanders have ever brought the Lord’s attention to the Middle Country before,” Namai said.
The King of Kings remained silent for a long moment. Eventually, he spoke in a raised voice which carried clearly across the Third Hall. “Nami of the Urdera, governor of Archers Nest, you are ordered to return to the garrison-city. Once there, you will ask the Raw Men to provide three volunteers to be sacrificed to the death in the House of Appeasement, that the Lord’s attention may be turned away.”
Namai lowered his eyes to the floor. “I hear and obey.”
* * *
[1] The Atjuntja divide the calendar into six unequal seasons. Second harvest is from late October to mid-December, and corresponds to the time when they collect the seeds from late-flowering wattles (mostly Acacia victoriae). The Atjuntja summer starts from mid-December and runs until roughly the end of February.
* * *
Thoughts?
“When tillage begins, other arts follow. The farmers, therefore, are the founders of human civilization.”
- Daniel Webster, “Remarks on Agriculture”
* * *
Second Harvest Season, 23rd Year of King of Kings Kepiuc Tjaanuc [November 1625]
Near Seal Point [Geraldton, Western Australia]
Cerulean skies above, the boundless light of the Source unmarred by clouds. The bountiful illumination stirred the heat from the soil and drove any meddlesome kuru into refuge of shadows or underground hideaways. Warmth filled the world from horizon to endless horizon in all the sweat-inducing heat of second harvest, if not quite the baking dryness of full summer [1].
A golden time, or so it should be, thought Ngutta son of Palkana. With his family, he stood among the wealth-trees [wattles] on the western edge of their holdings. No longer did the trees bloom golden, but their fallen petals still coated the ground in a reminder of the faded flowers. New shoots sprouted from where the flowers had been, small branches which ended in long pods. The pods were light green except where they had started to turn brown at their edges, and stood out in contrast with the much darker green of the tiny leaves.
Gold still sparkled from the wealth-trees, occasional flashes from where the first drops of gum oozed from the bark of the trunk and lower branches. After the main harvest had been completed, Ngutta would return with his sons to prune the trees and cut gashes into the bark at carefully chosen points, to return a much larger yield of gum. For now, though, they had other work to do.
After so many years, Ngutta and his family went about their tasks in smooth routine. His two youngest daughters – the only ones left in his household after their elder sisters had departed on their marriages – and his younger wife laid down mats around the base of one wealth-tree, then moved on to the next.
Behind them followed his elder wife and the two youngest of the four sons who still lived beneath his roof. They used long hooked poles to shake the branches, releasing the pods to fall to the waiting mats. A few stray leaves, twigs, insects and other detritus fell with the pods. The pole-carriers ignored that, simply making sure that all of the pods had been shaken loose before moving on to the next tree where more mats waited ready for them.
Ngutta followed with his eldest and third eldest sons. He still missed his second son, who had gone to Seal Point to work for the Atjuntja and find a town-born wife, despite Ngutta’s misgivings. But that absence would not impair the harvest; his remaining sons knew their roles.
He and his elder sons collected the mats, and shook them carefully. The mats had been woven with small gaps, so that most of the leaves and other small material fell through the holes. They emptied the seed pods into canvas bags, and handed the mats to his younger sons, who had returned to collect them and carry them ahead. Then Ngutta and his elder sons carried the bags to the next tree to repeat the process.
When all of the bags were full, the whole family would gather to carry them back to the nearest storehouse. There the seed pods could be until they popped open in a few weeks, with the wealth-seeds going into storage and the empty pods used to feed ducks and noroons [emus].
The rhythm of the tree harvest was ancient. Ngutta had learned it from his father, who had learned it from his father before him, and back an uncounted number of generations. It had served him well all of his life. Even in drought years, the wealth-trees still produced a harvest of seeds, albeit a smaller one.
Now, though, he wondered if all of their effort would be futile.
Ngutta had always thought of himself as a successful manager of his family’s holdings. He knew how to divide his lands and rotate his crops so that he always received a good harvest of two kinds of wealth-seeds, of red yams, and warran yams. Depending on the year and his needs, he ensured yields of flax, of indigo, or of quandongs. When there were problems with fire, drought or poor soils, he knew what to plant or what to leave unharvested so that the bounty of the earth would be sustained.
For the first time, though, his biggest problem was not harvesting crops, but storing crops.
The last few years had been strange ones. Rumours permeated the Middle Country, speaking of raw-skinned strangers who had come from the west, and who had brought goods with them to match anything provided by the Islanders. With the strangers had come other tales, of new maladies that claimed lives or left their victims disfigured, of ill-favoured omens witnessed among the stars, of displaced kuru crossing over from the liquid eternity, and about the Lord turning more of his attention to the King of Kings’ dominions.
Ngutta did not know how much credence to give those rumours, but he knew the affliction which was ruining his family’s holdings.
Rats.
Rats had always been a problem of sorts for raiding stored food. But their numbers could usually be contained by farm quolls and occasional hunts by himself and his family when farm work permitted.
A new kind of rat had appeared around his farm this year, though. Black and alien. No larger than the more familiar kinds, but much less shy around people, and much more numerous. The farm quolls ate until they were full, gorging themselves on rats, but the rats kept breeding, and kept eating. Much of the first harvest of wealth-seeds had already been damaged, and Ngutta had little more confidence for this crop. As for what he would do when the Atjuntja came to demand their tribute, he did not know.
As he laboured to collect the wealth-seeds, Ngutta had an even more unwelcome thought. When ill fortune became prevalent enough, the Atjuntja would think that the Lord had turned more of his attention toward the King of Kings’ dominions. If that happened, then there would be calls for volunteers for sacrifice. Many volunteers. And if volunteers were not forthcoming, what would the Atjuntja do?
Ngutta did not know, but despite the heat of second harvest and of his labour beneath the Source, he still felt chilled.
* * *
“In nothing do men more nearly approach the gods than in giving health to men.”
- Cicero
* * *
Eagle Day, Cycle of Life, 387th Year of Harmony (12.21.387) / 27 November 1626
Milgawee (White City) [Albany, Western Australia]
Tiayal (the Middle Country) [western coast of Australia]
Lopitja, called the Red by some, had travelled far and wide within the Five Rivers, and even beyond. It was both a privilege and a necessity for one of the most acclaimed physicians in the world. In his travels he had seen many things, and accomplished many things.
Yet never had he travelled so far, seen so much, or, in his own estimation at least, accomplished so much.
A few months before, Lopitja had visited the Island to seek the wisdom of the priests at the Temple of Broken Chimes. A rare visit for a Gunnagal, but then he had always followed the Sevenfold Path, even if not in quite the same way as the Islanders, and he had found the priests’ advice useful in the past.
The visit had been purely for Lopitja’s own insight. Rarely if ever did the Islanders bother to consult Gunnagal physicians – which was their loss – and in any case, few physicians were willing to leave the Five Rivers for the purposes of medical consultation. So Lopitja had been astonished when one of the Islander elders had asked for his professional advice.
He had been tempted to refuse, since the request had involved much more than a simple consultation. Even among the few physicians who travelled beyond the Five Rivers, none in living memory had committed to the risks of a long Islander voyage. The Islanders were seafarers like no others within the circles of the world, but even their ships sometimes failed to reach their destinations. Especially into the winds and storms of a voyage to the far west.
The Islander elder had been persuasive, though. He was Gunnagal-born himself, and he understood the value of physicians. As should anyone who came from the Five Rivers. Lopitja had accepted, out of a combination of curiosity, lucrative compensation for his time, the chance to extend his learning, and the knowledge that having an Islander elder owe him a favour was no small blessing.
So Lopitja had found himself in the White City, the place beyond the western storms. Tales of that distant city had been exaggerated, or so he had always thought. He had found out how wrong he was. The White City was larger even that Tjibarr of the Lakes, more ornate than Garrkimang with its ancient glories of the long-vanished Empire. A tribute to the boundless power of the King of Kings, who wielded so much more authority than any monarch in the Five Rivers, or even the Yadji Regent.
Still, for all of the splendour of the City Between the Waters, he had come here to examine people, not buildings. A new affliction had struck the Atjuntja lands, one severe enough that the Islanders had thought it worth sending for a Gunnagal physician.
And so Lopitja had come. Now he had accomplished something which no other physician had achieved since the great Dulabul: he had diagnosed the symptoms of a new bushfire disease [epidemic disease]. The corpus of physicians’ knowledge included many maladies, but most of those were slow-burning, afflicting only a few individuals but persisting for years.
Bushfire diseases were, fortunately, much rarer. When they struck, they spread very quickly, killing thousands or tens of thousands and burning their way across the world. So far as Lopitja had known, so far as any Gunnagal physician had known, there were only two: blue-sleep and Marnitja.
Now there was a third.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands were dying in the White City from this new affliction, and an uncountable number in the countryside beyond. Local rumours linked this bushfire disease to many sources, but Lopitja cared nothing for rumours, and still less for the misguided Atjuntja belief that any ill event was due to the Lord’s will.
This new bushfire disease was a severe affliction, but it had nothing to do with the actions of some god. Like all maladies, it was indirectly an effect of discord somewhere in the world, but the disease itself was simply a physical manifestation of that discord. All physical aspects of the world could be understood, and in the case of diseases, sometimes even contained or treated.
A bell rang three times. Among the Atjuntja, that was a polite way of announcing that someone of great importance had arrived and wanted to be admitted. The Islanders who lived in the Foreign Quarter had adopted the same habit, it seemed.
Lopitja left the sickroom where the last afflicted survivors had been gathered to rest and recover their strength.
Inside the antechamber of the sickhouse, the Islander elder, Nakatta, waited with barely-concealed impatience. After a brief exchange of polite greetings, Nakatta said, “You now understand this malady?”
“With as much wisdom as the Good Man can grant in such a short time of learning,” Lopitja said. He paused, wondering how many details he should inflict on the elder.
“I have called it swelling-fever,” he said. The Atjuntja gave it many other names, but it was a physician’s privilege to name a new illness which he described. “It is marked by severe swelling, like so” – he gestured to show swelling which started on both cheeks and ran down under the chin – “and pain in the jaw and head. Some men swell around their manhood, too. Many recover after that. Those who do not recover will suffer fever, afflictions of the head, and sometimes of the intestines, leading to vomiting. Some will die of the fever, or in delirium which is like a lesser form of Marnitja.”
“Will this affliction spread to the Island?” the elder asked.
Lopitja said, “I cannot be sure. But I can tell you that if any men on your ships show the signs which I have described, you must not allow that ship to land. It must remain offshore until a cycle [twelve days] has passed after the last person has shown any of the signs of swelling-fever. Only then can the passengers be allowed to return to the shore.”
Nakatta said, “Will that be enough?”
“I hope so,” Lopitja said, but he could offer no stronger reassurance than that.
* * *
“Sacrifice still exists everywhere, and everywhere the elect of each generation suffers for the salvation of the rest.”
- Henri Frederic Amiel
* * *
August 1631
The White City, Tiayal
Drums beat out a slow two-beat, the rhythm echoing back and forth across the Third Audience Hall. The hall’s purpose was exactly as its name signified, the third-largest audience chamber in the Palace; the King of Kings had ordered its name changed from the former title of Hall of Lorikeets.
The Third Hall could hold over two thousand people who had come before the King of Kings. Only a relative handful of nobles, officials and attendants were gathered here today. Namai of the Urdera, governor of Archers Nest, waited in their midst. He vaguely thought that it would be better to hold this audience in one of the many smaller chambers in the Palace. But then, apart from his oddly prosaic preference in names, the King of Kings had always thought that something which was worth doing was worth overdoing.
The echoing drums shifted to a three-beat, a warning of who approached. Namai lowered his head slightly in preparation.
A few moments later, the drums changed to a staccato four-beat, and the herald proclaimed, “Lower your eyes! He comes among you! Lower your eyes! He comes among you, the blessed of the Lady, the Voice of Divinity, the mightiest in the mortal realms, the occupant of the Petal Throne, the one who has no equal, the King of Kings, his exalted majesty Kepiuc Tjaanuc!”
Namai lowered his head until he saw only the floor in front of him. Around him, everyone else did the same. He heard, rather than saw, the King of Kings enter the chamber and sit on the less ornate representation of the true Petal Throne. While he did, he strove to keep his breathing soft and regular. No matter what fate the King of Kings had in mind for him, he would not reveal any fear or uncertainty.
The herald announced, “Namai, scion of the Urdera, you may raise your eyes and approach the throne.”
As Namai walked toward the King of Kings, he struggled to keep his footsteps steady. The herald had not called him the governor of Archers Nest. That omission could hardly be accidental. Namai had always thought his governorship in such a distant garrison-city had been a sign of the King of Kings’ disfavour, being banished from the glories and comforts of the White City. Even having first pick of the Raw Men’s trading goods did not alleviate his sense of exile. Still, how much worse could things be if he was to be stripped of the title in such public circumstances?
Namai stopped seven paces from the throne, and raised his head to meet the King of Kings’ gaze.
His exalted majesty, Kepiuc Tjaanuc, wore clothes and head-dress of perfumed splendour, as he always did. Namai knew better than to look for any meaning there. But he noticed the gray in the King of Kings’ beard, the increasing web of lines which marked his forehead and cheeks. Time was always both a friend and an enemy; it wore a man down to nothing, and then allowed him rebirth. For this life, though, it had become the King of Kings’ enemy.
The King of Kings kept his face expressionless, and gave no word of greeting. Instead, he made some gestures with his right hand. Lerunna, the chamberlain of the palace, stepped forward to stand beside the throne. “His exalted majesty asks you to tell him the state of his country of Archers Nest.”
Oh, the humiliation! Namai made an effort to keep his face still, but he doubted that he succeeded. The King of Kings had refused to speak directly to him! Namai was of the blessed; as a scion of a noble house, it was his birthright. He was permitted to hear the Voice of Divinity... yet the King of Kings would not countenance it. And again, there had been no reference to Namai’s rank of governor of Archers Nest.
Nor could Namai tell the King of Kings anything which he did not already know. Namai had been astute in sending parchments – and more recently, paper traded from the Raw Men– advising the White City of the troubles which plagued Archers Nest and its environs.
“Archers Nest is both favoured and afflicted. The ships of the Raw Men call there often, engaging in the trade which your exalted majesty has permitted. They have brought many wondrous new things – steel, cotton cloth, donkeys, Coromandel works. Yet strange new afflictions have come with them, claiming the lives of many of your exalted majesty’s subjects. A swelling sickness – the little death [mumps]. Plagues of sores, rashes, and fevers, leading to broken men [syphilis]. The red cough [tuberculosis] spreads through the country. Many fields lie untended or have been abandoned for want of workers. Endless infestations of rats have ruined many storehouses. The tribute to your exalted majesty has been reduced.”
Lerunna glanced at the King of Kings, then said, “These plagues have not all been confined to Archers Nest. Perhaps you have suffered worst, but all of his exalted majesty’s dominions have been afflicted. But what have you done to protect his exalted majesty’s interests?”
“Everything I can,” Namai said. “I have consulted the omens, and been diligent in following them. I have ordered more quolls bred, and more ratcatchers trained. Builders have been ordered to strengthen storehouses and leave other construction work for a more auspicious time. I have released more peasants from garrison labour to help harvest the fields.”
“Yet the troubles continue,” Lerunna said.
It was not a question, so Namai simply raised his right palm to show agreement.
The King of Kings gestured again, then Lerunna said, “The Lord has turned his attention to the mortal realms. Many sacrifices have been made, but the troubles continue. His exalted majesty asks what should be done to appease Him.”
Namai shivered, despite all of his efforts at self-control. He had grown up with the language of the court, even if he had not been able to put this knowledge to proper use during his long years of exile. He knew a call for a volunteer when he heard one. And with the troubles which afflicted Tiayal, this would not be a call simply for a sacrifice to the pain.
No, this was a call for a sacrifice to the death. That much, Namai was not willing to do. His long years in exile had been sacrifice enough, as far as he was concerned. He would prefer to let other nobles sacrifice themselves when the blood of peasants had failed.
Except that the King of Kings would not be satisfied with that. Clearly, Namai was the chosen sacrifice, and the alternative was to be publicly humiliated by being stripped of his rank as governor. Unless...
Namai said, “It is these Raw Men who have brought the Lord’s attention.”
Lerunna said coldly, “His exalted majesty will not order the Raw Men to trade no more with the Middle Country.”
Namai noted that the chamberlain had not bothered to consult with the King of Kings before answering that question. That made him wonder what other politics troubled the court. The plagues were worst around Archers Nest, but they had also reached the White City. The people must be unhappy. Were the nobles, too? Yet the nobles would also be the ones who received most of the wondrous new goods from the Raw Men, and would be greatly aggrieved if they lost this source of wealth. If the King of Kings ordered trade cut off, how secure would he be on the Petal Throne?
Still, that would not help his own situation. Namai said, “If the Raw Men are the ones who have brought the Lord’s attention, then it can only be their blood which appeases Him.”
That suggestion brought the King of Kings’ eyes back to meet Namai’s gaze. “No outlander has ever been called to sacrifice himself to the Lord,” the King of Kings said.
“No outlanders have ever brought the Lord’s attention to the Middle Country before,” Namai said.
The King of Kings remained silent for a long moment. Eventually, he spoke in a raised voice which carried clearly across the Third Hall. “Nami of the Urdera, governor of Archers Nest, you are ordered to return to the garrison-city. Once there, you will ask the Raw Men to provide three volunteers to be sacrificed to the death in the House of Appeasement, that the Lord’s attention may be turned away.”
Namai lowered his eyes to the floor. “I hear and obey.”
* * *
[1] The Atjuntja divide the calendar into six unequal seasons. Second harvest is from late October to mid-December, and corresponds to the time when they collect the seeds from late-flowering wattles (mostly Acacia victoriae). The Atjuntja summer starts from mid-December and runs until roughly the end of February.
* * *
Thoughts?
I love your narrative style, it's quite gripping and informative. I'm also loving the Aururian perspective on the germ/good exchange, very insightful not only to the exchange itself but to the mindset of the Aururians. As any good author should, you're making me crave for more. Great job, and do carry on.
Aururian medicine is definitely advanced enough to mitigate the effects of European diseases as much as is possible in the 17th century. Aururian religion...will be less helpful. If the White City's "request" becomes a demand, things are going to fly out of control. Quickly.
Hendryk
Banned
My first thought was: agreeing to human sacrifice? like hell! Then my second though was: maybe the Dutch can just hand over men who have been sentenced for capital punishment. So from their perspective it's not human sacrifice, it's outsourced execution.
Valdemar II
Banned
I doubt it, the Dutch may have been coldblooded, but even the rumour of Dutchmens turned over to Pagans for sacrifices could result in the companys CEOs fired, imprisoned and their properties confiscated.
{Dun-Dun}
Love the vinettes...you get across so much information in so little text. Masterful!
Love the vinettes...you get across so much information in so little text. Masterful!
I look forward to reading the Duch, hell NO.
Then I look forward to the Atjunta taking some sacrifices.
And finally the Dutch shelling the White City from ships with cannon.♦
Then I look forward to the Atjunta taking some sacrifices.
And finally the Dutch shelling the White City from ships with cannon.♦
Oh, yes, it's still going. There's still many tales to tell in this TL.
I've been delayed in writing more instalments of LR&G for a couple of reasons, though. One is that the pace of writing this TL on top of my other commitments was starting to get to me. In just over a year, LR&G has reached 139,000 words. That's an average of about 2500 words a week. On top of a more than full-time job, my other hobbies, and even, when time permits, a life.
The other reason is what, if I used Facebook more, would be announced as a "change in relationship status".
I saw lands of red and gold on the first page and was overjoyed at the thought another update had been posted.
Everytime you bump a beloved thread and create false hopes in the fans the Fire Brothers kill a baby Quoll.
Yah, this is why I didn't bump the thread just to say that the next post would be delayed. I thought that would be kinda harsh.
In a word, yes.
Thanks. More is a-coming, although unlike last year, I'm not sure if it will be every fortnight. I'll see what I can do.
Neither can I...
Well, they can understand the nature of epidemic diseases, and do what they can to use quarantine. I'm not sure whether that will do more than slow down the spread of disease, though. Finding cures will be harder.
Nice understatement.
Why, yes. Yes, they will. Did I mention that the next post is provisionally titled "Time of Troubles"?
That said, the Atjuntja won't be entirely sure how to handle things if the Dutch say no. Their religion does require that the sacrifices volunteer... more or less. They have ways of making sure that their own people volunteer - as Namai would have had to do, eventually, if he hadn't had the clever idea of deflecting blame to the Dutch. They will be puzzled about how to apply similar pressure to outsiders.
Thanks.
Mumps - it's the same disease which, later in the post, Namai called both the swelling sickness and the little death.
By the way, mumps has spread quickly to Aururia because it produces a significant number of asymptomatic carriers. Tuberculosis and syphilis have reached the continent because they have very long incubation periods. Measles and smallpox will be bigger killers if/when they reach Aururia, but they don't produce asymptomatic carriers, and the sailing distances are mostly too long. So far.
Merci.
Complete coincidence, actually. I've never read those books, and not being a player of RPGs, didn't know about the Dungeons & Dragons connection until I just read about it in the Genocide.
Thanks. And yes, it is mumps. One of many diseases awaiting the chance to cross the oceans.
Yes, I think that the VOC would not be able to get away with it. Even if they sent Javanese pagans instead. There are some things which they would just see as too abhorrent.
{Dun-Dun}
Love the vinettes...you get across so much information in so little text. Masterful!
Gracias. Where possible, I do try to go for the show, not tell option.
Heh.
The Dutch are certainly going to have to react somehow. Of course, they also have the problem that war with Spain is raging in this period, too. How many resources can they afford to divert to Aururia?
Valdemar II
Banned
Honestly quite a lot I imagine, they already have a military presense in the Indian Ocean and it's not a main front in the war with Spain (and Portugal), so they could easily move several ships to Aururia, through I don't think they can scrap many soldiers together. But even a few ships supported by a small group of infantry would be quite dangerous for the Aururians, they can't really do anything if the Dutch shell the city. At the very least I imagine a new treaty which expand the Dutch access to trade, right to build fortifications and their factors and settlement are recognised as Dutch territorium under Dutch laws.
- Status