Chapter XLVIII
Once more trees fell and rose again, stripped of branches but brandishing instead an awful tooth at the end, and the stockade surrounding the Rufoux village resurrected. As the days passed, the clans restored walls, raised towers and attached a catwalk to the inside, some five kronyn from the top. The lumber, hewn with Melic efficiency, underwent expert shaping by Raspar tools designed for working with stone but sufficient nonetheless. No longer leather bonds but bronze straps secured the new fence, as Jakke labored at his forge. No gate interrupted the walls, but several ladders stood ready for lowering to the outside. The massive amount of laborers made the work progress quickly, although even after several days some still remained. Osewold took a position in the one forward tower completed, its height rivaling the forests that gave it birth, and so he it was who called the alarm of an approach upon the River Alluvia.
The clansmen outside the stockade gathered atop the bluff while the remainder scurried to see over the rim of the walls. Upon the gentle flowing of the river came a single Koinoni ship, carrying a large, familiar Bedoua form, once again decked out in the traditional, ceremonial garments of his clan, surrounded by dozens of baskets and parcels. Along with him stood a green figure with one arm clearly larger than the other, an axe strapped to his back. Behind came a huge flotilla of giant logs, every one with most of the inside pulp carved away and long poles sticking out, one from each side, at a backward angle. Within each log sat as many Bedoua as would fit, long pikes sticking straight up, working curved sections of thin bark as paddles.
“Zootaloo!” said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow.
“Ho-ho! You see, I have conquered the cursed Alluvia!” began Dungo, before he had even reached shore, the clicking from the canoes sounding like a plague of insects. “Now that this wretched stream knows its master, what hope do the Aoten have? Haaa! You see, we Bedoua return to join battle, to avenge the blood of Humus, to protect the lands of Medialia! Our lances reach long, and their points deadly sharp, and our aim as well! We will take a lesson to those giants, and they will learn to stay clear of Medialia, and of the Bedoua. Ho-ho! What say you, Artur of the Rufoux? What say you, Theodoric?”
“Good to see you returned,” said Theodoric, taking Dungo’s hand. “And to see your men with you is most welcome. Though a thousand flies die, their stings still can bring down the therium.”
“Yes, welcome again to my lands,” said Artur. “Though I’m beginning to wonder where we’re going to put everyone.”
“Lo, this fat toad will cause the death of us all,” Severus muttered at Vespus.
The clansmen dragged all the dugout boats ashore with much difficulty, the desert Bedoua making at best clumsy sailors; among the debarking men were Krait, Mistral and Ingle. Sylva had also returned, and when her bare feet again touched the riverbank she immediately sought out Rhodan. The supplies came off the Koinoni boat and, with much fussing from Dungo, were carefully lifted into the stockade. “Much we have to talk about,” said Dungo, clicking. “I think you will be pleased, every one. We now all come together, all five clans of Medialia, gathered in one place with one purpose in mind. Never has hand joined hand in such a way, that different clans might cooperate together in peace, for the greater good of all. Ho-ha! This historic alliance can not pass without great festivity and ceremony, to enlarge its remembrance for generations.”
Dungo gestured Mercedi to approach, grasped the hands of Theodoric and Artur, and drew all closer to Yarrow. “I have brought gifts for all, wonderful gestures of peace and treaty, treasures to make prosperous your futures and add years of joy and comfort to your lives. Let us all meet at table, take bread and drink to one another, and exchange tokens of love and gratitude to each and every one, as memorials of our devotion and sacrifice, one clan for another!”
“Four for four? That is only even,” said a Koinoni, probably Yarrow.
Not hearing, Dungo continued. “See, I have brought great quantities of cheese and butter, and flagons of rumidont milk for all. Might there be some of that bee-milk among us?” he entreated, leaning into Theodoric.
“Yes,” said Theodoric with a patient smile. “I think we can find some honey.”
“Grand! Then all is well,” Dungo clicked. “We must gather in your finest building, Artur of the Rufoux. We must seal our new understandings of each other, our new prospects for the lands of Medialia, and make provision for a long and fruitful future together! Ha-ha! Much will be written of us in the millennia to come, for Sylva already has begun to commit to parchment and paper the wonderful adventures and accomplishments we have already won for mankind! The children of men will eternally glorify us in their memories, and in the tales they tell around their campfires. Let us make this pact among ourselves and all our descendants and mark it with precious and beautiful artifacts that our children’s generations will treasure always!”
And so all agreed that each clan would send ministers to ceremony that night, in the only-partially repaired common building, bearing gifts for each of the other clans. As the sun dipped into dusk, Artur, Dungo, Theodoric, Mercedi and Yarrow gathered around the fire pit. Rufoux men and women lined one side of the structure, and Raspar archers, desiring as close quarters as they could find, lined the other. Upon the bare rafters above, not being covered with animal skins yet and still open to the skies, sat dozens of Melics, as happy as if they perched in the trees. Outside the walls around the open end of the great longhouse sat the Bedoua, content as well to be under the stars. Yarrow knelt along with five other Koinoni around him, all facing out like spokes on a wheel.
“Lo, this house is no better than living under a net,” said Severus. “No self-respecting Raspar should be seen in such a hut.”
“Aye, then, off with ye!” ordered Mercedi, and a couple of archers noisily dragged Severus out.
“Lo, I will kill ye for this humiliation!” he yelled.
“Friends,” said Geoffrey. “As elder of the Rufoux, I welcome all to this conclave of the clans of Medialia. We begin our alliance against the fearsome Aoten — an alliance that will surely see much violence visited upon us — with tokens of peace exchanged among ourselves. First, to welcome you all to the Rufoux homeland, Artur, chieftain of the Rufoux, will offer our gifts and offerings.”
Artur stood, and along with three others produced a set of brightly polished ceremonial helmets, of the same type usually made of leather, but these of burnished bronze. Rufoux metalwork at its finest, settings of smooth and colorful stones lined each brim, and delicate etchings pictured characteristic elements of each clans’ existence: a Koinoni boat, a rumidont, a musical instrument, a sword, a chisel and hammer. A low humming, all in unison, arose from the Rufoux attendants as the gifts passed to each clan’s chief, slowly joined by the rich harmonies of the Melics above.
“You still have to tell me how you do that,” Artur said to Theodoric as he presented his helmet.
Yarrow stood next, along with the other Koinoni. They all began to spin in place, so quickly that none of the onlookers could say later how they had pulled from their robes delicate silver contraptions. The odd machines consisted of a heavy base; an arm rose from one side of the base, then curved over the top, with a hollow ball suspended loosely from its end. A conical spout emerged at a lateral angle from the side of the ball.
“Fill the ball with water, and light a candle under it. Soon steam will emerge from the spout, and the ball will turn,” Yarrow demonstrated. “An ingenious man in a western land invented a miracle.”
“Ha-ha! Balls spinning like Koinoni! This is too wonderful to express!” exclaimed Dungo, and the clicking of the Bedoua grew and provided a curious percussion to the undercurrent of voices.
“We bring to you all the most beautiful works of the Bedoua,” the vizier continued. “These figurines came from the labors of our finest glass-blowers, the keepers of the secrets of the sands. They have mastered the arts of delicate forms and beautiful lines the mind can not even imagine, and they
produced these wonderful works in just the time of my departure, in the camp of my desert home. These figures began as drawings by Sylva, Raspar skills that she has made her own.”
Ingle brought forth four tall objects covered with cloths, almost his own height, and with flair Dungo unveiled each one in order. Each formed a tolerable likeness of another clan leader, made of long, thin stretches of colored glass, set vertically like a bird cage. Graceful turns and bends produced the look of muscles and clothing, thighs and chests, chins and noses, except for the hooded Koinoni figure. They made a sight most unusual, and beautiful in an other-worldly way, not unlike seeing a stranger who bears a resemblance to a close friend.
“Lo, we have traveled far and come not prepared to offer beautiful gifts, nor works of art to decorate your ceremonial halls,” said Mercedi. “The Raspars have only tokens of their practical help for ye, at least until a later time. So please accept these artifacts as expressions of our intent to defend, and to build.”
In her hand she held simple necklaces, leather straps strung with the highly polished Raspar arrowheads, and a small Raspar hammer hanging from the back. She slipped the cords over the heads of each king, and the arrowheads clicked lightly against the therium horns resting upon Artur’s chest.
“From the Melics,” said Theodoric, “We offer what makes our hearts glad, the only trail we leave in the forests, and we hope a symbol of our pact together. Like music, let us each be separate notes, but sung together, in what we call harmony. Even as our voices join with those of other clans tonight in this very building, let us join not only in the wars of the Aoten but in many endeavors in the years to come.” Then he motioned Franken to bring out four beautifully carved and inlaid reeds, made of the blackest ebony and decorated with creamy white birch. Carefully he laid the instruments in the hands of Yarrow and the others.
“This offers no use to Koinoni. We can not play, nor can any we trade with,” he said.
“What?” said Artur. The singing and clicking abruptly ceased.
“We refuse the gift. Koinoni have no use for it.”
Suddenly Artur burned hot and jumped to his feet. “I might have known! You cheating Koinoni can not value anything that does not fill your pocketbook! You have strung us along until you can extract your own price for our survival.”
“Not at all …” began Yarrow.
“Shut up!” screamed Artur. “Shut up! On my land, in my village, you bring villainy against my friend! Only by his word do we tolerate you here! You are not worthy of breathing my air!”
“Please, good sir,” said Dungo soothingly.
“Artur, you risk ruining everything!” said Theodoric. “Your anger will kill this new alliance, and will deal a death blow to thousands more!”
Artur strained against his outrage. “Not for this kind of backbiting have I risked my life time and again! How do you propose to make this right?” he demanded of Yarrow.
“We would take something else,” he said flatly, as though he had come prepared.
“What can I offer you instead of the reed?” asked Theodoric gently.
“We would take the woman Picta. She desires to leave your clan anyway.”
Yarrow’s statement took the air out of the room. Theodoric stared blankly, thinking only of his empty home in the trees. Artur looked up to Picta, sitting upon a rafter, who looked pleased at first to hear someone want her, until she spied Artur’s expression. Suddenly she realized what the Koinoni sought from her, and panic took her eyes and flooded over her face.
“No!” Artur roared. “You will not have her, to sell her body into whoring! You will not! I would die in the teeth of a deviltooth before peddling flesh in my village! I’d rather – I’d rather –” he sputtered. “I’d rather kill you than breathe. But I won’t. You made me offer once – all right then, done! You foul traders, you vile Koinoni, you will have something you desire more than even coin in your filthy pockets, but you will not have Picta!”
Artur pulled Kylie from her scabbard and brandished her at the opening of Yarrow’s hood. In the second that passed, uneasy murmuring arose from the gathered Rufoux, not sure what to expect. Artur slammed the sword’s point into the ground between the Koinoni chief’s crossed legs, and stormed out of the building; a handful of his clansmen also made for the door, Geoffrey trailing behind. Each man and woman sat in stunned silence, and Picta wept tears of love, and loneliness, and gratitude.