Wars of the Aoten
Chapter XXVIII
The sun glared almost directly overhead the travelers as they came within sight of the Bedoua tent village. Ingle and Humus led the procession, with the Koinoni at the rear, each spinning in turn as they walked. Artur thought they must be about to faint from the heat in those robes, but they showed no signs of fatigue.
“Zootaloo! Guards to starboard,” said one after he spun, and indeed armed sentries appeared over a dune, demanding that each of the group throw up his hands.
“What do you mean by this?” declared Ingle, outraged.
“Orders of Krait. He warned us about you,” said one rotund sentry with a particularly scraggly beard.
“Warned you, Mer? Warned you of what?”
“Koinoni, coming in with Rufoux, scheming against the Bedoua. Krait told us to arrest you.”
“Krait does not speak for Dungo!” Ingle intoned his mantra between clenched teeth. “You make a better shepherd than guard, Mer! Krait is a fool! Let me get to him before he corrupts Dungo’s mind!” And Ingle slapped away Mer’s spear and marched past him quickly. As they walked toward camp the portly sentry reached out to tickle passing rumidonts and imitated their noises deep within his throat, and clicked.
Ingle led them grandly through the encampment, and a crowd gathered at the odd sight of the Koinoni marching along, covered like phantoms, each spinning in turn.
“Krait!” bellowed Ingle at Dungo’s door. “I knew I’d find you here putting poison into Dungo’s ear!”
They found Krait upon one knee before the seated Dungo, his hands outstretched as if making a plea. Behind Dungo stood Sylva, and Scree and Moss nuzzled the folds of her flowing raiment.
“How does the girl fare?” Dungo asked plainly.
“She has recovered,” said Humus.
“Yes, she is well again. Thanks be to you, and to Mog,” said Artur. Clicking could be heard from Mistral, but nobody else.
“Ho-ho! Krait says she has died, and you come to seek vengeance. But you see, Bedoua bring a blessing to the Rufoux, no? The Bedoua have delivered a good thing upon the Rufoux, and upon their leader! Well have the Bedoua done, would you not say, sir? Well we have done for you, and blessing we have been upon you, and you would return a curse upon us? Krait tells me of your plans, to bring more and more Rufoux into the camp and attack us in the night, to avenge the girl. He tells me of how you use the Melics to gain the trust of other clans, only to ambush them at the first chance! He tells me of the disguises you invent to sneak warriors into the Bedoua lands, so you can blame other clans.” And he indicated the Koinoni. “What say you to this, oh treacherous Rufoux? What say you to these charges Krait has made?”
Every one of the travelers looked at Artur in surprise, not the least Geoffrey. Dungo’s speech left them breathless.
Artur braced his feet and took hold of Kylie’s grip. He felt the growl growing in his throat. “The girl lives. Krait is a liar. He means you only harm,” he said, his voice thick.
“Yes, I know. Your words prove only too true,” said Dungo, and looked to Sylva. “Begone, Krait, you have failed in your purposes.” Krait glanced about defiantly, eyes concealed behind his glasses. He slunk out of the tent, sneering and muttering over his shoulder, and Dungo stared at the spinning Koinoni.
“Please, sit down and eat, cheeses and butter and cream, my friends! And stop that turning. I am so pleased to see my dear friends again! And you sir, what a blessing to see you!” Dungo grabbed Mienrade’s hand. “Such good tidings that the girl survives! You have been paid well for the magnificent toy, no? Bedoua never leave a good turn wanting. We have met our end of the bargain. But now these Koinoni you bring, I did not agree to this. We can not have such scurrilous characters wandering in and out of the territory of the Bedoua. No, no! The clan would never agree to this, would never stand for it, even if Krait does say so, for many tales we know, mind you, tales of Koinoni trading that left entire villages bare. Tales that would make one shudder to think of what might befall the Bedoua at their hand!”
“The Koinoni have agreed to join us against the Aoten,” said Theodoric when a breath by Dungo allowed the opportunity. “They come to persuade the Bedoua to aid our battle.”
“Yes, the Aoten, they are yet more different, and an issue much different from healing a Rufoux girl. The toy hippus, and bee milk, such delights we have never seen, but that does not mean that the Bedoua will give their lives to Aoten cudgels. Bedoua still have no reason to go to war. The deserts, they protect us, and Wolven will have the giants in the midst of his prowlings. The Bedoua do not feel called upon to die when giants threaten only other clans. We wish you well, my dear friends, but to give our lives for such a thing, what reason do we have? No reason at all! What good can come to the Bedoua from joining with the other clans of Medialia?”
Ingle sidled up to Dungo’s chair and handed him the paper he had traded for. “I have a new thing for you, Dungo — they call it paper, and peoples from far away draw lines upon it like Sylva’s writing. We came to own it from our time passed in the Rufoux camp.”
“Indeed? Pay-pare? How does this work? Can you make this work, Sylva?” She took the paper he offered her and studied it thoughtfully, then brightly nodded. “Well said, Ingle, you’ve done well to deliver this wonderful fabric to the Bedoua! No doubt you have served your people well, for Sylva reckons wisdom better than all my daughters, even all our people, and this new treasure mightily pleases her! What wonderful items the faraway peoples make! Ha-ha!”
Ingle felt greatly vindicated for his trade now, still hoping Dungo would not ask about the cheeses, and he looked to Artur and Theodoric. The Melic leader took up the argument.
“Dungo, the Aoten have set their minds to take Rufoux grain now. If they can get the grain, they will pillage Rufoux weapons as well. After the grain is devoured they will be all the stronger to take Bedoua rumidonts. All your little animals, even your pets here, will end up on spits over Aoten fires, then filling their bellies. And then your herds will be no more, and the Aoten will move on to destroy other clans. They have already destroyed the Xinna to the west.”
The Koinoni nodded silently.
“Moss and Scree? They would,” Dungo swallowed hard, “eat Moss and Scree?”
“Likely,” said Theodoric solemnly.
“Forget it,” Geoffrey broke in with one eye on Dungo. “Krait said they wouldn’t help fight.”
Ingle nearly took exception, but he had no chance before Dungo.
“What does Krait say? Nothing! No, he speaks not a word for the Bedoua! He speaks not even for himself, for he never remembers the lies he tells! We will no longer hear of Krait! Dungo will speak for the Bedoua, and Dungo will decide if we fight or not!”
Sylva had taken a small bottle and dipped in her little finger, which she carefully ran over the surface of the paper. Quietly she reached over Dungo’s shoulder and placed the parchment into his hand.
“The Bedoua have but one vizier, and Krait carries not enough weight! Who does? Dungo! Dungo will — what? Yes, what’s this?” he said, and looked intently at the scrawl.
“What’s that?” Theodoric asked Humus.
“Nobody knows,” he replied.
“Dungo has decided,” he said, looking up sharply. “But first we must know about these Koinoni. The peoples of the vast world tell many tales of their conniving, and the Bedoua will not be robbed as well as killed.”
“Well said,” said Artur under his breath.
“In their camp we found the tales of the Rufoux raiders to be false, every one,” said Ingle.
“What? How do you know?”
“We found no Bedoua items in their camp, vizier. No rugs, no tents, not even tame rumidonts, though wild ones abound. The Rufoux use none of the good things that come from the rumidont. The Rufoux have stolen nothing.”
“Nothing? How can that be?”
“The legends have lied, vizier.”
“What, the legends, too? But what does that prov
e about the Koinoni?” said Dungo, looking at his paper again. “Just because the forefathers may have been mistaken about the Rufoux, does not make the Koinoni trustworthy. Just because someone perhaps exaggerated some stories we heard as children, does not mean the tales of today can’t be true. How do we know we can trust the Koinoni? They don’t even have a homeland; what can they possibly offer in the defense of Medialia? What do they have to offer the Bedoua?” Dungo looked to Yarrow, the only Koinoni facing him.
“What do you have?” Yarrow asked, mostly only out of habit.
“What do you mean?” said Dungo, and the constant clicking from Mistral increased.
“He means this,” said Theodoric, and he lifted the flagon of honey hanging from the shoulder of the Koinoni who bore it, who reached to take it back, but too slowly. “His clan comes bringing bee milk for you. He found a way to win it from us, so he could offer it to you.”
“Oh! Marvelous, this contains that marvelous bee milk? How I have longed for its taste this awful, slow month. You, sir, behave as a true gentleman, and a wonderful guest to bring more of this most precious elixir! Ah, its goodness leaves words in shame.” Suddenly the tent filled with clicking, and Dungo looked to Sylva, who smiled. “Yes, it is good! So good! The Bedoua will not turn away from such a generous and wise guest, who makes such a compelling appeal!”
“What do you have?” Yarrow asked again, sounding confused and distressed at giving up the honey.
“Yes! Of course, a gift must be made in turn!” said Dungo, looking around himself, trying to identify something that might interest the Koinoni. “What do you see that you like?” He did not realize the danger of the question he posed to the Koinoni.
“What lies in there?” asked Yarrow, indicating a large pot filled with something black.
“Black sand!” gushed Dungo, and Humus nodded and clicked in his throat. “Most mysterious, is black sand. You can find it only in remote spots in the desert, and no Bedoua knows where it comes from or what to use it for! See, how large the grains, and coarse, and black as night; and then also they come smooth and gray — not like regular sand at all. And so heavy! What a find for the Koinoni, to possess black sand! We welcome you to the entire pot, for rumidonts can not eat it, and grains can not grow in it, and it can not be woven into fabrics. But you never saw anything so precious, so valuable, no doubt about it! You may take it all!”
Each side withdrew quite convinced it had received the better gift, and Dungo ordered milk to be brought. Mienrade mixed drinks for all, and Dungo lounged upon his perch of rugs, happily clicking alongside Theodoric and Artur.
“And what introduction may I have to this elderly Rufoux you have brought with you? Will you not allow me the honor of meeting yet another Rufoux, the second Rufoux to enter peacefully into the land of the Bedoua?” Dungo said.
“This is my father, Geoffrey. Among all Rufoux, he is most ancient.”
Geoffrey extended his hand, and Dungo took it, noticing his missing thumb.
“What a shame. You have lost the best part,” he said.
“What?” said Geoffrey, puzzled, and studied the hand. “No thumb makes a hand difficult to use, yes. Do I understand you?”
“No,” said Dungo. “The thumb, the best part of the feast. Very tasty.”
“What?” said Artur.
“Unfortunately, we have no dead, or you could taste one. Or at least you could try. The family would be very troubled to give up the best part.”
“You,” Artur’s throat clinched. He looked twice at the food upon the woven napkin in his hand, and found the words difficult. “You eat your dead?”
“Indeed. The Bedoua celebrate the most holy of our religious rites by sharing death with life. We take our dead to ourselves, honor and venerate them by giving them our life. Why would we curse them to eternity in the dark ground, or the hot coals of fire, when they can become part of us? We take part in them, to keep them Bedoua forever. Each generation takes on the generation before, and so we make ourselves eternal upon the Earth. Ha-ha! And so we also rob Wolven of his appetites, for he lies in wait to inhale our beloved both body and soul, if we give him the chance. Much you could learn from the Bedoua! Death serves only as a right of passage into life, the lives of one’s children, and never would a Bedoua do anything otherwise for his loved ones. The cursings of Wolven would surely fall upon us if we failed this obligation.”
Artur let his cheese drop.
Theodoric sat listening deeply. “The sun travels the sky, but surely she has only to observe the Earth, for there’s nothing more to do.”