Nanowrimo Pt. 2

Bullgut, Bullgut, Bullgut! Niniveh woke up to children yelling that pathetic name. The fire-dust covered child came up to Niniveh and pulled him up. “Bullgut killed a bos! And he found water! Water!” Niniveh had watched this charcoal-covered child grow from a small suckling babe, and never did he think he would be so excited about water. The water was plausible – it was not unheard of for there to be oases in sandy drylands. But a bos? How could it survive here? This better not be some Oriman trickery, Niniveh thought. They had grown up together, and were probably brothers, though his tribe did not put much weight onto blood relation, and for good reason, too. Niniveh and Oriman were as different as fire-dust and the smooth white finish of a mammoth’s tusk. Niniveh was always the butt of Oriman’s jokes, always the fool, always a bit too slow and too faithful.

Oriman found a bos, but he did not kill it. It had been dead for days, baked in the sun to a nice crisp. The intense heat intensified the decomposition and amount of worms in the carcass. Oriman stood proud and tall next to his find, but Niniveh spotted a tinge of disgust in his face. Rathead Wormeater instinctively jumped up and announced that the worms were safe to eat and would be delicious once cooked. His lisp made him drool a bit and look even more stupid than normal. Rathead was in fact a crucial element of the tribe. He was the only one who knew the healing arts. He also knew the prayers to the night orb, called Nineveh, but Nineveh thought that was useless. Rathead’s knowledge of mushrooms, worms, and exotic flora was especially crucial to this journey. It had been said that he survived twenty moon-turns by himself in the drylands, the marshground and the underworld. He survived mainly on worms, and loved to brag about how big and juicy they were in the marshgrounds. Even with fresh bovine meats and brightly colored root-plants cooked by the mothers back in their forest home, Rathead would sometimes go off into the woods to find worms and eat them in solitude.

Night began to set and three fires were built. One of the mothers, Atila, set half the bos onto the fire, raised on four stakes. As it cooked, it slid down, covering the fire. Then Atila and two men would raise it up again, and set it on the four stakes at a different angle. The second time it seemed to stop sliding down, so the men and Atila took the time to rest. She sat next to Nineveh and offerered to help him gather fire-dust after the bos was cooked. The fire-dust would be of poor quality, they both knew.

Back in their forest home, Nineveh would let oak branches burn for days, slowly turning them. The end result would be pure fire-dust and wouldn’t even need to be crushed. Since they were traveling, his fire-dust was crushed anyway, and he had very little left after the children’s prank. The charcoal from the spikes would have to do. “Why did you bring the fire-dust?” Atila asked.

“The great water arch has caves, inside and all around it. In the caves we must make our mark, just as we did on the stones in our forest home, and just as we did with the statuettes. My mother told me it would make the other tribes fear us. Oriman believes this too. The fire-dust will make the marks, as well as dried blood to make red marks. I would like purple shells as well, though it is unlikely I will find any.”

Atila didn’t look convinced. “Will the other tribes follow us here to the drylands? We are so few. I wish we would have stayed at home.”

Niniveh knew what he had to say. “Oriman has a plan. No one would follow us here but a madman. We are safe. We will get to the great water arch.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. He felt like he was a liar, like Oriman. Atila, however, was comforted. A slight smile was visible as she left to tend to the children.

The night orb was just a thin slit in the sky, disappearing like the people who worshiped it.

Nanowrimo Pt. 1

Niniveh, Nin, Ni. Names became shorter as the group journeyed on. The lack of fresh food and water was beginning to weigh them down more than the statuettes they carried. Oriman was leading them to the great water arch. He bragged about the many times he had visited and participated in the many rituals in the surrounding caves. Niniveh smelled dishonesty throughout Ori’s stories, but he went along with his people, and said nothing. He also smelled less and less greenery and the yellow dust swirled around more as each day passed. Oriman’s confidence declined as did his protruding belly, in which he carved out the head of a bull years ago to symbolize his position as prince of the tribe. Because of this, many of the younger children, who were still struggling to roll their R’s, called him bullgut. The children were the most hardy of the group. Although leaner, they still found the energy to play pranks on each other. Twelve days ago one of the younger children stole a leather pouch filled with crushed fire-dust from Niniveh and threw it at another child. The charcoal stuck to his skin and water was too precious to wash with, so even now the afflicted child was covered in black patches, as if he had just climbed up from the underworld and was a child-demon too innocent and too young to devour them.

Niniveh mourned the loss of the fire-dust, but he quickly became more concerned with the direction of the journey. If they did not reach the great water arch, firedust would be useless. He was down to his last bits of dried bos. The fatty bovine meat could sustain him for days, but the arid environment was making him especially hungry and he found himself consuming it too fast. The sun beat down harder than Nin had felt before. He knew of tribes and peoples who worshiped the sun. The sun did give life to plants and the plants gave life to the animals, but in this sandy desolation, there was just sun, and no life. Niniveh had long considered the sun-worshippers to be right, until this journey. Now, the night and star worship of his people gained clarity. In the evening, it would become cool, and his sun-burned skin would relax and feel soft nightwinds cradle his body. The stars, so gentle in their brightness, reminded him of his people.

There were three mothers and eight men in the group, but three of the “men” were just boys – men only by name. This was the last of Niniveh’s people, and they had crowned some of the older boys as men before their journey, hoping it would make them brave and unafraid. The rest of the group was children – about twelve and one still suckling at the breast. This youngest babe was also named Niniveh, the name of the great changing orb of the night. Nineveh watched it as he fell asleep, whispering a prayer he had heard long ago. He wondered if the gods were ever hungry, or thirsty. He wondered if they felt anything at all, or if they were unmoving stone beings, infinitely useless, and eternally magical.