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.