This be where the fuckery happens
- Drift
- Feast of Ashes
- Drinking Deep the Waters of Acheron
- Night Never Comes
- Drink Only Blood
- Daevic Poetry and Language
- The Autobiographical Account of the Adventures of Muranu the Not-So-Wise, Part 1
I guess there are worse ways to die. This way is pretty bad though.
I’m sorry
There’s always that risk on a spacewalk. That you might get hit by something.
I couldn’t control it.
I didn’t expect it to sever the support tether. The ship couldn’t catch me in time. I don’t think they tried as much as they could have.
It was an accident.
I was spinning, flipping over and over. I felt sick but the last thing I wanted to do was puke in my space suit.
Please don’t hate me.
It was strange. I felt like something fell inside of me. Like something passed through my suit and got stuck in my chest.
I can’t get out.
I don’t know how long I’ve been floating. We were between star systems. There’s so much empty space.
Please don’t hate me.
I feel something twisting around in my stomach.
I hope it doesn’t hurt. I’m sorry if it hurts.
I should be afraid. I should be screaming and panicking.
Do you have any ideas on how to get me out?
But I’m not. I can’t seem to.
Maybe we can work together?
Maybe I’ve accepted it. Accepted my fate.
Don’t give up. Please.
I can see a floating rock. Not even an asteroid. Maybe I can reach it somehow. Kick off of it or something.
I’m so scared.
Maybe it can take me to another star system.
We wouldn’t make it there.
That’d be too far, though. A vain hope, I know.
Hope is empty. I don’t know what to do.
Maybe it will just slam into me and kill me instantly.
Please no. I’m afraid to die.
I haven’t had food or water in so long. I don’t seem to care though.
I don’t want you to die. I would die too.
My oxygen should’ve run out. I can still breathe.
You can’t suffocate. I won’t let you.
There goes that rock. Nowhere near me.
Why can’t you hear me? I’m screaming and screaming.
I feel a tingling. Right in my stomach.
Why? Are you just not listening?
There’s something in my ears. Must be tinnitus.
No, it’s me. You can hear me!
Is it a voice? The voice is mine.
No, it’s mine. Listen to me. Please, I have an idea.
I think I’m hallucinating. If it weren’t for the starlight outside it would feel like sensory deprivation.
We can work this out. Just let me take over. Let me in.
Sensory deprivation makes your mind run wild. You hallucinate. Hear sounds, see shapes and forms. Your brain tries to fill in the gaps.
It might work. If you let me into your brain and nerves we can work something out.
The mind abhors nothingness. It fills it in, tries to make sense of things around it.
Are you even listening?
I feel something in my throat. I hear a voice. It is scared. It must be my own.
It’s mine. I’m coming up.
Voices. I hear other voices. A bizarre word salad. Voices I’ve heard before all saying nonsense all at the same time.
Please focus. We can do this.
Echoes, voices, hallucinated sounds. An aura.
Oh god no, it’s too much. Please hold on!
The nebulas are bright. They glow and breathe steadily.
Stay conscious. Please! Don’t go unconscious, it will kill us.
All of my brain is being stimulated at once. My vision is darkening.
No! No no no no no nononononononono! Don’t seize! Don’t seize!
There is a voice. It is scared. It is not my own.
I’m so sorry. I’m so so so so so sorry…
The stars are beautiful.
Meh…
In the cremation grounds we waited, watching the bodies of a rich man and a poor child burn side by side. The rich man's body was surrounded by a large group of well-dressed and influential people. The poor child was surrounded by the members of his immediate family. Death comes for everyone, rich and poor, and the cremation grounds near where we live become the home of their ashes. The rich man was allowed to burn all the way to ashes, but the child's body was pushed into the river as soon as his skull popped open in the flames. His body would feed the turtles and the dogs. And us, as well.
The mourners cannot see us. Cannot see when we gather the ashes in bowls made from skulls. Cannot see us picking at the still-burning body of the child. The mourners leave and our feast begins. My brother filled his bowl with the child's brains and tossed the child's charred face into the river into the waiting mouths of the turtles. My mentor drank deep a mix of filthy river water and the rich man's ashes. I collected what bones and ash I could and we shuffled back into the flat wastelands across the river.
We ate in silence, cracking open the child's bones, sucking out the marrow, and swallowing handfuls of ash. Our food always has a hint of sorrow that adds to the flavor. My brother broke the silence.
"Were we to expect visitors soon? I think I recall the crows bringing a message that there we others of us on their way."
"I do not believe them," my mentor said. "The crows often lie. There are not so many of our kind that others would travel to our grounds. Besides, do we really want them to squabble over what little food we have these days? People are being cremated in grounds even farther from here. Why shouldn't travelers go that way instead? There is only enough for us here at our grounds."
I remained silent. If others came, would we have to drive them off? Or would my mentor show mercy and welcome them. Was that not the right thing to do? To show compassion to our brethren?
My mentor continued. "If they must eat, then they may eat the refuse that chokes the river's edge."
The next day five crows returned and perched on our fragile shelter of skin and sticks. They spoke in unison. "From the west they come. Not more than four. Four more of your kind, o ancient beasts of yore. Wanderers walking wide wastes, weary and wanting, wishing to wallow with you in your white wasteland." This the crows spoke.
"Tell them to move along, that we do not want them here," my mentor snarled. "These are our bones, our ashes. This is our home."
"Too late, it is. They are noticeably near now." The crows flew off as we spotted the wanderers on the horizon. My mentor called to them.
"Move along. There is no food here," he shouted. I could feel his anger dripping in foul gobs from his body. It was as though he was no longer the patient mentor I knew and had become a selfish beast. He bared his yellow teeth and snarled at the newcomers.
"Where may we go if not here?" said the leader of the four wanderers. "We have been chased off from our homes by the Shambling Ones. We beg of you to give us shelter, if only for the night."
My mentor paused, considering the proposal, then he sighed. "Very well. One night only will you stay though. In the morning you must be off, or I shall chase you off myself."
"Yes, yes of course. We swear on the night that we shall," said the leader. And so they stayed with us for the night. The four wanderers were thin from hunger. Their leader, though tall, stood slumped and hunched. The others were shorter. Must have been younglings. They cowered behind their leader and stared in fear at my mentor.
My brother and I introduced ourselves while our mentor begrudgingly went to scavenge food for the weary wanderers. After some time he returned with a corpse. It was that of a plump elderly woman. The four guests began to tear at the woman's flesh, eating ravenously. I was worried though. The woman's skull was smashed in, the wound recent. Too recent. I could only hope that our mentor did not murder the woman. It is a sin among our people to kill for food. My mentor looked me in the eyes as if reading my fears from afar, silently demanding me not to say anything.
I knew then it was true. He had killed.
The sun set and the newcomers shared their stories with us. They told us of how they had been starving for weeks, and how they shamefully had to eat one of their own for sustenance. Then their home was attacked by the Shambling Ones late in the night. Their massive feet had crushed the newcomers' homes, devouring whole those of our kind that they were able to capture.
From where the Shambling Ones came, we do not know. Normal humans cannot see them; they do not know of the Shambling Ones' existence just as they do not know of ours. If they did, they would surely kill them, just as they kill all things that threaten them. But we are few, and we cannot fight those gargantuan and alien Shamblers. And deep down, all of our people knew that the Shambling Ones would be our end in due time.
It was after we fell asleep. I was awoken by ominous thunder, even though the skies were clear. Then the ground shook, waking all of us. Our visitors panicked and rushed off into the night before we could even get our bearings. The thunder was louder, pounding, earth-shaking. My mentor, my brother, and I looked up behind our shelter and saw the tremendous form of a Shambling One. We had never seen one of them near our wastes before. Something drew it here. My mentor cursed under his breath as we turned to run.
It was then that I remembered what it is that attracts the Shambling Ones like a beacon in the dark. The thing that tied our visitors actions to our own. Or rather, what tied their pitiable actions to what my mentor had done. The reason why we do not kill.
It was sin.
Sins attract the Shambling Ones. Our sins, and no one else's. Not human sins, not serpent-men sins. Ours' alone. The sin the visitors committed was killing their own to eat it's flesh, even though it was in a desperate effort to survive. And my mentor committed the sin of murder. He had damned us.
We ran swiftly, but the long strides of the Shambling One allowed it to keep up with little effort. I looked back just in time to see my brother swept up in the Shambling One's massive paw and dropped into its mouth—a thin slit that was almost the width of its body. I heard my brother's screams and the crunching of his bones.
It was all my mentor's fault. It was his fault my brother was now dead. It was his fault that our home, our safe haven right near a fine source of food, had been destroyed. He should be punished. He needed to be punished. As we ran, I pushed him as hard as I could while still maintaining my balance. He fell over and I could see the fear in his eyes and the pain in his soul as he was lifted into the air. I heard the Shambling One crunching upon my mentor, and I could not help feeling sorrow, but also satisfaction that justice had been served. Served on the metaphorical silver platter.
I had reached the river. I noticed a small hole in the sudden slope just along the river bank. I ducked inside and waited, my whole body trembling. The ground shook violently and I knew the Shambling One was just above me. It paused, then the ground shook again, though it slowly became distant as the monster lumbered away, apparently having given up chasing me.
I hid in the hole until evening the next day. I fear now though, that my actions in pushing my mentor down might constitute as murder as well. Was I a marked sinner as well, or was I merely acting as an agent of retribution? It has been some time since, and I have only rarely left this hole, but I expect the Shambling Ones to come for me in due time. To punish me for the murder I committed. And even if the Shambling Ones do not come for me, I may seek them out. To seek justice and assuage my own guilt.
A final sin of self-annihilation.
Depressing shit all day er'ryday
Nothing was ever enough. No amount of comfort and affirmation was ever enough. was a dreary soul. Day in and day out he would tear himself down, seeing only his flaws. Not smart enough, not attractive enough, shallow things without real consequence. Delusions magnified to extremes, he wears many masks to hide the inner conflicts so as not to worry his loved ones. The masks grow thinner and thinner each day as the shadows in his mind break him down. Eventually he could stand it no longer and resolved to… do something. He was not sure what he should do. Should he drown himself in a mix of drink and drugs? Should he opt for something more painful? Should he seek help (a far more reasonable option, of course) to conquer the things within? In the end, he compromised and decided to wander.
Aimlessly he walked, from city streets to country roads and finally to unmarked trails deep in the humid pine woods. It was late at night and all the biting insects were out and about, swarming and biting at his exposed skin, leaving itchy welts that would take days to go away. He paid them no mind as he trudged forward without thought. After many hours he came upon a lake. He had been down this path before during the day and there was never a lake here. The insects were gone, there was no wind, and all was silent. The lake was still, no fish, frogs, birds, or alligators disturbed the motionless water. Far from the city lights, the glow of the Milky Way reflected dimly on the water's surface.
was silent, staring upon the beauty of this ephemeral lake when he caught a glimpse of movement to his left. When he turned his head to look, nothing was there. Hesitant to break the silence, he gathered his courage and called out. His question of "who's there?" was answered by absolute silence. Now on edge, he looked around warily. When nothing appeared, he sat down at the water's edge.
Even in the dim starlight the water was clear enough to see the lakebed. There was no algae bloom, no excessive water weed clumps, just pure and icy cold water. He felt compelled to drink though he didn't know why. Lakes and ponds were always filled with microbes, and many of those could make a person sick. But drink he did. At once he felt his mind clear, the shadows and pits of his depression fading swiftly. He drank more and more before deciding to strip naked and enter the water. Normally he was afraid of deep water because who knew what kind of things swam and crawled beneath him.
When he was ankle-deep he wondered what he hoped to find within the lake. When he was waist-deep he wondered how he got here. When the water reached his neck he began to wonder why he felt compelled to wade into the waters. And when he was fully submerged he finally questioned what had brought this lake into existence. Beneath the surface, he opened his eyes and beheld a strange sight. A hole in the lakebed just large enough to fit himself in. God knows what came over him, but he swam to the surface, took in a great gulp of air, and dove down into the hole.
Though he entered swimming, as soon as his feet were past the edge of the hole he began to fall. And though he was falling, he was unafraid. There was air in this strange place yet he felt no need to breathe. He landed at the edge of a river inside a vast limestone cavern. For a moment he worried that he had fallen into the dark depths of the aquifer that lay beneath the entire state, though [SOMETHING, FINISH THIS LATER]
Overhaul plskthx
I'm so tired. I've been running for days. It's too bright. It's been too bright for who knows how long. Light has always been described as something good, something that brings safety. Is that really right? When all we've known, all we've been told, is shattered by nonsensical yet irrefutable truth, how do we rationalize that?
I like this one better, but redo the part about the corpse waking up to be more ambiguous
I was wandering the wastes the other day when I came upon a corpse. It was a young man, couldn't have been more than 20 years old or so, by my estimate. He was lying on his back, eyes transfixed, staring at the dizzying sky above. Curious, I moved to examine his body. There was no evidence of trauma, no open wounds or crushed bones. He was, however, dehydrated, and almost certainly had been killed for want of water. I had come about this area earlier that day and I never saw this man. He had left no tracks in the cracked and parched earth. It was as though he had simply appeared out of the air and promptly died. Fresh corpses are hard to come by, especially ones so wonderfully intact (and I'm not one to question good fortune), so I picked him up and tossed him over my shoulder and made my way toward my hovel in the hill.
I placed him down and looked him over again. He wore simple clothes—just a shirt, pants, and shoes. He carried no belongings or anything that could be used to discern his identity or name. Better that way, not knowing his name. Knowledge of names can be troublesome in some circumstances. Or so I'm told. I don't remember why that is, and I don't have anyone left to ask now that everyone has gone. As it was, I began the process of undressing him, tossing the clothes and shoes into a pile behind me. He was of medium height and build, not too tall or short, not too large or thin. While rigor mortis had already set in, the process of decay had yet to begin. 'All the better,' I thought. Taking a stone knife, I cut a thin slit into his stomach and pulled it wider ever so gently so as to allow putrefaction to set in quicker.
I've lost count of the years that I've been alone. Each day I am greeted by the sun and most nights I am greeted by the moon. What few plants that live here are hardy but tough, and not well suited for eating. They can go for ages without water, though they never grow to any substantial size. Animals are rare. The few that I see are usually dead; the last time I saw an animal must have been many months ago. It was a dead hare, already dried and festering under the burning sun. I have its remains in my cave still.
The loneliness no longer bothers me. The others had left, stating that there is nothing here ever since the Shambling Ones butchered most of our people and chased us into this liminal desert at the edge of the world. Now that the Shambling Ones seem to have gone, my family and friends left, hoping to find a city or a mass grave that they could dwell in. Why I stayed, I do not think I can honestly state a reason. Maybe I was afraid the Shambling Ones still lived. Maybe I just came to love this parched place. I don't think it matters anymore.
The sun set, the night passed, and by morning the young man began to exude the pungent and savory odor of rot. The organs had begun to rupture, spilling bile and fluids into the rest of the body. By the second day he had begun to bloat quite nicely, though not as much as I had hoped. I questioned my decision to cut him open, and that perhaps I was too eager to wait for him to decay naturally. I was hungry, yes, but not so much in that I couldn't wait it out. Fresh meat is far too difficult for myself and my people to digest. We can eat it if we're desperate, but it causes a great deal of indigestion. The more advanced the decay the better, though ideally ashes were the best to eat.
A body of this size can take much too long to decompose. Human bodies can take years, especially if there are no insects or other critters to help it along. Would that I lived in a more habitable place with blowflies and their children to keep me company. Worse, this dry region had the chance of mummifying the body if one was to wait long enough. Ashes can be tasty, but a withered mummy is far too bitter. I waited some three more days or so before growing impatient and seeking a way
I sat silent, trying to come up with an idea on how to help nature's processes along. I reviewed the tools I had collected in my cave. An old tin can for some food product (some manner of cooked beans, I think) that my grandfather had found long ago in a trash heap outside of a city. My trusty stone knife, of course, crafted by myself some years ago. A set of carving tools to get at the stubborn bits, including a curved bone and funnel to gather blood and other fluids. A collection of gnawed bones and remains from past meals. A pouch made of skin and filled with herbs and dried roots—very useful for combating stomach aches. My eyes rested on a cup that I had made from a skull. It was old and weathered, but I figured that if I used the carving tool, funnel, can and bowl I'd at least be able to drain some blood to hold me over until the body was ready. And so I began to drain the body.
The blood was thick and mixed with the bile that now flowed freely in the body. The blood drained slowly into the bowl and I tried my best not to spill too much onto the ground. I rolled the body on its side to keep the blood from oozing out, but to my surprise the body kept bleeding far more than it should have. I drank quickly until I could drink no more, yet the blood kept flowing. Something was wrong. By my estimate, more blood had left the body than would normally be in a human corpse. After an hour, I stopped collecting the blood and repositioned the body so that the blood drained out of the cave and down the hillside. I worried that the blood might fill the cave if left alone and undisturbed.
As I moved the body, however, I thought I saw faint motion on the young man's face. A twitch of the lip or the eyelid, though perhaps it was my imagination. They eyeballs were dry, still fixed forward in a perpetual stare. I had never seen a corpse move before, yet something within me worried that the body was not as it seemed.
A full week had passed and not once had the bleeding stopped. Late one night I was awoken quite suddenly to the sound of gurgling noises coming from the direction of the body. Grabbing my knife, I approached the corpse slowly. It shivered slightly before convulsing wildly upon the ground. I rolled the body over and plunged my knife into the neck. I watched in horror as those dry eyes moved to stare blankly at me. It tried to speak but it could only sputter and drool blackened blood. Had the man's ghost returned and was trying to reenter its mortal shell? Such a thing was why people cremated their dead for so long, so that they could force spirits to pass on. I'd heard it could happen but I'd never seen such a thing before. I stepped back and watched the man attempt to drag himself feebly toward me. I felt pity for the man, and drove my knife into his head, hopefully forcing whatever spirit animated him out. The body fell silent, now motionless yet its eyes still stared at me. I sat for hours, watching the body. I had lost my appetite completely.
I wanted to cremate him, but I had no fuel to start a fire with. Perhaps I felt guilty, letting him rot like that. I hadn't felt guilt in years, not since the others had left. The next day I buried the body in a shallow grave beneath the hard earth, the oppressive sun glaring down upon me. I wondered why I still lived here in this desolate and isolated place, with little food to eat and no water for who knows how far. Maybe I should have left, but I'd never find the others by now. Maybe they were dead anyway, just like the rest of our people. Maybe that body appeared here as a sign for me to bring everything to an end? I am not sure why I think that.
I am preparing to leave come morning. I will walk until I collapse, crawl until I am weary, and die if I am fortunate. For reasons I have forgotten, I abandoned hope and family long ago. There was no reason to prolong the inevitable. I shall become dust, just like everything else does in these empty wastes.
Poetry of the Daeva
Words
the poetry would do something like this.
Type A
6 lines, a couplet, then 4 lines. Common themes are devotionals, love, warfare/battle, nature. The couplet must rhyme. The 6 lines must be prose, the 4 lines must be about praising or condemning the subject of the poem. Must rhyme.
Type B
Foreword by Rusk Oleru, Story-Seeker and Ex-Dirt Farmer
I have known Muranu for nearly two-hundred Earth years now. In that time he has done so much for me, more than I can ever repay. From my beginnings as a destitute dirt-farmer attempting to cope with the loss of my dearly beloved spouse to our adventures that led me to join him as an immortal Story-Seeker, Muranu has always been at my side, both to start and to resolve almost all of the troubles we got ourselves into. I had never dreamed that my humble life would take a turn for the fantastic and I am eternally grateful to have met such a wonderful, foolish, amusing, and caring friend. I love him deeply and it always thrills me to see when guests in the Library are reading one of his (and my) many thousand books that we have written throughout the ages. Muranu would make it seem that he was too humble to write these volumes about his life, but it was actually rather easy to convince him to. In short, he was simply too lazy to get around to it until I pestered and threatened him enough times to get him to write.
Throughout this autobiography I will at times provide notes and comments in the form of footnotes at the bottom of some of the pages. Muranu is known to… embellish when telling more lighthearted tales about himself and his life, though he can be dreadfully serious when speaking of the darker times. It is my intention that my footnotes will help to bring context to his stories, educate readers who are not familiar with human cultures, as well as to confirm or disprove some of his more exaggerated claims. In the end I hope that these stories will entertain, teach, amaze, and enchant you, dear readers, and that the magic, mystery, and magnificence of the multiverse will inspire you to see the greatest of sights and partake in the widest array of experiences that all of creation has to offer.
Introduction
I have spent the eternity that is my life collecting stories and memories from many different worlds, speaking with countless peoples, ephemeral beings, cosmic horrors, oceanic monsters, skittering critters, and many others in my endless adventures across existence. I have written multiple volumes found here in the Wanderer’s Library, several of which can be found in most of the nonfiction sections (ask the good Docents for help finding them), but little have I written about myself. My good friend, fellow story-seeker and faithful companion Rusk Oleru has encouraged, urged, and coerced me into writing this autobiographical account of my life, something that I have avoided for the many thousand years that I have lived so far. Perhaps you, dear readers, have unanswered questions about the man who authored such books as The Myths and Legends of the Auror Wave-Watchers, The Fall of the Star-Singers, and Collected Bawdy Tales from Eyr and Lovenar. Perhaps you do not care at all. Nevertheless, I present to you an account of my life, my travels, and all of my poor decisions that gave me the title of “the Not-So-Wise.” I hope you enjoy it.
Beginnings
Adventures almost always have humble beginnings, not only in literature, but even in life itself. My beginning is no different. I was born in a town that would eventually become the city of Eshnunna along the banks of a verdant tributary of the Idigna river.1 My father was a potter by trade and I his first-born child. Oh, how he doted upon me! He would insist on carrying me when he and my mother went to market, he would always make time in his day to play with me, and he often told my mother about how I was cuter than any other baby they passed in the street. He would say this proudly and my mother would try to shush him, for he boasted about me loud enough for the other passing mothers to hear. “What? It is true!” he always told my mother. His trade however, kept him quite busy, and he was thus unable to prevent me from wandering off with the other children to get ourselves into all manner of trouble. This was of course until my siblings were born, when my mother needed all the help she could to raise them and keep them healthy. And though the neighbors did help us care for my siblings, I was still called upon to run errands, fetch water, and listen to the neighborhood women drone on and on about how I was supposed to set an example for my brothers and sisters as they grew. That meant no more chasing the other children at full speed through the crowded market, no more swiping dates from the vegetable merchants’ stands, no more taunting the grumpy old men at the far end houses, and no more mock sword-fighting with the other boys. All completely unreasonable requests! How was a boy supposed to enjoy his youth if he couldn’t even smack his friends with sticks or throw rocks at old mens’ doors?
My father had to step in to scold me and the other boys many times, the spoilsport that he was. And so it was that I was eventually forced into the horrible chore of “being responsible.” I was required — quite against my will, mind you — to learn arithmetic and literacy from the patient elder scribe that lived next door.2 My father provided the scribe with clay tablets for him on which he could print his reports with his old and weathered stylus in exchange for him tutoring me. My father wanted me to learn his trade, so he taught me how to use a potter’s wheel, how to shape and smooth the clay, and all other boring aspects of pottery, such as the different kinds of clay and methods of painting, that so often nearly put me to sleep. A sedentary life was the last thing I desired. I wanted to travel, wander along the Idigna’s edge, see the greatest animals and the biggest cities. I knew soldiers tended to travel a lot, but when I mentioned that to my father he nearly wept, his greatest fear being that I would die a pointless death in a battle far from home and that he would never see me again until he passed into Kur, the realm of the great goddess Ereshkigal and her husband Gugalanna.3 Little did either of us know that he would enter Kur long before I would, if I ever will at all.
When I turned 13 years old I was considered a grown man. My responsibilities to my siblings and parents increased, especially with regards to my poor mother. Two of my siblings had died in the previous two years, bringing us from five children to three. My mother was devastated, and spent many nights crying in my father’s arms. I do not think she ever truly recovered from losing them. Though she loved all her children equally as any mother should, she mourned with all her heart for my lost brother and sister. I had wondered silently if she was afraid that over time she’d lose the memory of them and thus tried to hold on to those memories as long as she could. Conversely, my father tried his best to return to a life of normalcy, the same way he did when Namtar4 brought his parents into Kur as well. I find that for some people a return to the familiar routine of everyday life is sometimes a chosen method of resolving grief and accepting loss. Such was my father’s way, and I would later adopt this method when the time came that my future loved ones passed. And even now, these thousands of years later, I still miss those poor children whose lives were cut so short, one by disease and one by heat stroke.
Eventually as the months passed and we recovered, and I soon was back to my old mischievous ways. I snuck out at night to meet up with girls under the moonlight, neglected my pottery lessons, and crafted elaborate lies and excuses to cover up the evidence of my absences and poor conduct. My father of course saw right through them almost every time, an ability which truly must be a form of sorcery possessed by every father in the history of the universe. I did many other foolish things that any teenager would do; I even for a short time demanded that people call me “Urgula”, which means “lion.” I did this until my father, brother, and sister all had laughed at me in the same day. “You are no lion,” my brother had said. “You are a large kitten and that is all.”
And perhaps he was right. Perhaps I was a kitten. But I would say that I was a handsome kitten at that. I grew to be taller than my father by the time I was 17, I was muscular and tough, and my beard had grown in so beautifully that I had to make sure that I oiled and cared for it daily. The men of my people shaved their heads bald to keep vermin and lice out of their hair, while the women oiled their hair to do the same. Those of us with beards used oil for the same purpose. And so there was I, strapping, tall, and dashing—so much so that the girls I had grown up alongside would often all but come to blows with one another just to walk arm-in-arm with me in the market streets.5 Life was fun and satisfying, and knowing that this was the only time in my life I could possibly get away with this behavior made it all the more enjoyable. There came a time, however, when I had to face consequences for my immaturity and selfishness. I knew it would be so eventually, but I did not expect it to come as quickly as it did.
I could see it in my father’s face. His age was beginning to show. His beard was steadily graying, the wrinkles on his face deepened each year, and he would become tired more easily. It was strange to me because he wasn’t all that old, and yet he seemed to carry himself as if he were a man twenty years his senior. His head would hurt and his blood pressure would quickly rise whenever he and I quarreled. Our fights were over a clash of ideals and expectations. He felt that I, being a full-grown man, should look toward getting my future in order by taking up the family trade. I would tell him that I wanted to live my life my own way and that there was plenty of time later to learn pottery. These arguments would occur at least twice a week, and I saw the effect that it would have on my father and I felt guilty for causing so much aggravation to this poor aging man.
Not enough guilt though, it seemed, as I did nothing to change my impulsive and lustful behavior. It never occurred to me that me flitting about from one partner to the next like a butterfly among flowers would cause the neighbors to gossip. Even if I had thought of it, I wouldn’t have cared about what they said anyway. But gossip hurts those around you as well, and that was a lesson I had yet to learn.
I came home one night rather late. My father was waiting for me, preparing himself for the argument we both knew was coming. He wanted to know why I was out late again.
“Well, where were you?” he asked. He did not raise his voice, and it was then I noticed that he appeared to have been quite sleep-deprived. He had been suffering from bouts of insomnia for months prior.
“I was out. What does it matter?” I said, raising my voice slightly. And thus began the second of our bi-weekly arguments, myself being the instigator.
“It matters. I’ve told you time and again.” His voice remained low, even cracking here and there, prompting him to clear his throat. “And do not raise your voice at me. The rest of the family is sleeping. Show some respect, boy."
I’d humor him this time and see what weak reasons he would sling at me this time. “Oh yeah? And how does it matter?” It wasn’t as if it was him who was out making merry mischief with his friends at night.
“Are you aware that the neighbors have been talking? Talking about you, boy?”
“A bit, but I don’t see why I should care what they say.”
“They say that you are causing their families much grief and irritation. They worry that you’re going to do something foolish like try to court a married woman next.”
“Ha! Maybe I should,” I said brazenly.
“This isn’t a joke, Muranu.” He spoke louder now and rose from his seat. “Do you realize how that gossip affects us, your family?”
“No, no I don’t see how what I do could possibly cause the neighbors to babble to each other about you. You aren’t the ones involved in my business.” I moved in closer, glaring down at my father and trying my best to seem more intimidating than he. I already knew by then that trying to stare him down never works and it wouldn’t work this time, though I tried anyway. He did not relent.
“Boy, listen to me. Everyone is saying that we haven’t raised you right. People keep asking us about you. Asking where you are, what you’ve been doing. Do you realize how many of your friends’ fathers have come up to me begging for me to tell you stop stealing away their daughters and drinking wine with their sons until the early hours of the morning? Five different families this week, some of which are my regular customers, too. Their children have to prepare for their adult lives, they can't be living as recklessly as you have been.”
I didn’t believe him. I didn’t care. He’d said all this before, though he never made it seem like it was all that big a deal. He saw that I was unmoved. No one else in the family ever complained about this to me. The only one who ever mentioned the gossip was my father, and never in this much detail before.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he said. I stayed silent. “Go ahead. Wake up your mother, ask her to tell you more.”
“Father, I’m not going to wake her. It’s the middle of the ni—”
“Oh, but you don’t have a problem if I stay awake, is that it?”
“You didn’t have to stay up either!” The argument’s volume was escalating quickly. I heard a shuffling from my parents’ room, then saw my mother approach us, still only partially awake. “See? I didn’t want to wake her up, but you kept going,” I shouted. My father backed away, glaring at me with a mix of anger and sorrow.
“Muranu,” said my mother softly. “Let me speak with you for a while.” She motioned to my father, who sullenly left the room and went to bed. She sat me down and spoke to me gently. “Muranu, your father and I are not lying to you when we say that what you are doing affects us as well.”
“I don’t see how or why it should,” I said.
“We love you, my son, and it is embarrassing and sad to hear so many people speaking only bad things about you. The other mothers have asked me many times if I’m doing anything to try to get you to behave. They think we haven’t raised you right, Muranu. And that hurts me to hear.”
I stayed silent. My mother had always been far better at making me realize my mistakes than my father had. She was such a kind-hearted woman, and it caused me much pain to realize when I’d done something to upset her.
“Some of those girls are going to be wed soon. You can’t keep sneaking into their rooms at night. You’ve been keeping the other families awake when you are out late with friends. They hear you drunk and yelling almost every night. Please, Muranu. Please don’t do this anymore. It’s a wonder that the town guard hasn't come after you by now.”
“Mother, I’m just…” I couldn’t bring myself to argue with her about this. She was right; my father was also right. I hadn't wanted to admit it, but they were right. And so I told her the things that were troubling me. The reasons I carried on my late-night hooliganry. “The boys haven’t really been joining me out at night as much anymore, so it’s been mostly just me. I fear that they're leaving me, that they don't really want to see me anymore."
“I know, dear son. I have spoken with their parents lately. They’ve been starting to help their families with work, and some have even started families of their own. There will come a time when you will do the same.”
“But I don’t want that kind of life. I don’t want to tie myself down to work or marriage. I want to be free, to stay up late with a bottle of wine, enjoying myself, howling at the moon, and stuff like that.”
“That’s not how life is, though. Things happen, time passes and you will eventually have to grow up someday. I don’t want to make you feel trapped, but you have everything you need to have a simple and easy life. You are safe here behind the city walls, you’ll inherit your father’s trade, and you already have some pretty girls wanting to marry you.”
I sat silent for a while. Was this how my life was supposed to be? I just wanted to explore and drink and be free. Was that too much? Is part of growing up allowing your dreams and hopes to be crushed beneath the millstone of every-day drudgery? To give up the things you enjoy in favor of the mundane and routine? “I’m going to go to sleep now, mother. I’m sorry I woke you.”
She hugged me, then said “I just want you to be safe and happy. Just because things might end up different than what you wanted doesn’t mean that your life will be miserable. I promise.” She stood up and returned to her bed. “Sleep well,” she whispered.
As it occurred, I could not sleep well and even after all that had happened I resolved that I wouldn’t allow myself to lead a hollow life, even if that meant abandoning everything. I was afflicted, cursed even, with wanderlust and a thirst to know what was beyond the walls of the city and there was not a thing in the world or anything that any of the gods could do to stop me.
So I decided to play along. I began to learn pottery in earnest, I was no longer staying out late drinking, nor was I going out of my way to meet with my past paramours. In secret, however, I began to stockpile whatever supplies I would need in preparation to head out into the wilderness and discover a life of my own. I purchased a bag and a blanket, and made the rest of the tools I’d need by hand. A flint knife blade, an axe head and some spearheads, a small bow and a few arrows, animal sinew and rope to bind things, and a little clay pot with a stopper to carry water in. I hid them away from my family in a little cache just beneath the city wall on the outside edge. A few days prior to my departure I purchased dried food. Then, the day before I left I wrote a message on a tablet to my family and left it outside the door of our home at night before I began my travels. It read this:
I am sorry, but I had to go. I need to be free for one
last time before my life is over. I promise I will return
in the future and then I will be ready for the life you want for me.
Your son Muranu
I did not lie. It was very much my intention to return eventually to my family. Life beyond the city walls turned out to be harsher and far more unpredictable than I could have expected, but I pressed on, knowing that I had to keep my word to return someday. Someday, of course, referring to many weeks or months later, not a day and a half later. That would just make me look silly. And I liked to convince myself that I was not a silly man.
I followed the tributary downriver toward the Idigna itself, then turned right and walked along the Idigna’s edge upstream, heading northeast or so. I didn’t know much about navigating by the stars, but I did have a pretty good memory and sense of direction. Of course, there is something to be said about knowing how to navigate and making it up as you go along, pretending not to be hopelessly lost. Which of course happened. More than once.
As it was, though, I made sure to stay close to the river. Besides fresh water, food was plentiful if you knew what you could eat. I would spear-fish or hunt small game when I could and forage for edible plants and fruits whenever I pleased. Finding a safe place to sleep each night was not as easy. At this point in Earth’s history, there were many dangerous animals in the wild, one of the larger ones being lions. I encountered lions on more than one occasion and I was fortunate that I was able to evade them. The females travel in great groups while the males travel alone or with a few other males. Running into either of those packs was a guaranteed death and I do honestly believe that the only reason I am alive today was through sheer dumb luck (a luck that fortunately I seem to have even to the present day).
At this time of year, the unpredictable floods that the Idigna is subject to had already passed. Now and then I would pass by farmers and fishers. Most would greet me kindly and some would offer me food and drink or let me take shelter on their property for the night. Sometimes I’d be offered a bed and other times I be directed to sleep in the animal pens with the livestock instead (did you know that a sleeping sheep makes for a fantastically comfortable pillow?). Regardless of the lodging, I did not mind so long as I was sheltered from dust, rain, and the biting cold nighttime winds.
It happened early one morning. I had already been travelling for fourteen days and had stayed the previous night camped out beneath a covered rocky outcropping. I awoke to the trotting of horses and the chatter of human voices coming from the road that ran along near the river. In the distance a group of four men on horseback led a horse-drawn, sun-shaded wagon. Their clothes and hairstyles marked them as foreigners, and their dark horses were outfitted with outlandish armored saddles decorated with bones. Foolish and naive I was, for in what was probably my greatest moment of stupidity I packed my things and walked out to the road to meet them in the hopes that they were merchants from afar and had wares or food for which I could trade. I realized my error when one of the riders pointed at me, shouted to his compatriots, and pulled a net out from his horse’s saddlebag. I never had a chance against them. I tried to run, but the horsemen swiftly encircled me. They tossed the net over me then one dismounted his horse, pushed me down into the dirt and bound my hands with rough and itchy rope. I tried to call out for help, even though I knew no one could hear me, but I was cut short when a solid strike of a heavy wooden club impacted the back of my head. I lost my sight for a moment and attempted to crawl forward until I was lifted up and tossed into the back of the wagon. I bruised my ribs against the wagon’s hard wooden floor and I could feel blood on the back of my head. I was not alone in the cart. There were four other captives, though I could barely see them, dazed as I was by the blow to the head. I tried to speak, but the throbbing pain was becoming too much to bear. My consciousness faded slowly, and I cursed myself all the way for ever leaving home.