A note on pronunciation: Anywhere that there is a name, the vowel "a" has the same sound as the o in bog or the a in bar. The vowel "o" always has its natural sound, like the o in oval. The vowel "i" always has a long sound, like the ee in glee. The consonant kh has the sound of the ch in Bach and Loch.
The night was black, vicious, and thick; a penetrating darkness that laid its burden over all creation like a virulent plague. To the left and to the right, darkness stretched its tendrilous grasp into every corner of the camp, down off of the low crest of the Little Brother and up into the invisible peaks of The Twins. A peal of thunder broke out, low and rumbling like the sound of a great horn. It struck the great congregation gathered on the hill once, twice, and three times as it descended from the blackness and came at them again off the sides of the great peaks above.
Below, the unwashed masses of the Kagiym were huddled closely against the cold. They were clustered tightly on the great hill, but their sheer number forced most onto the tented plain below, and every one of them that could manage it was standing. Everywhere there was a great silence. No one dared to raise their voice to speak, but instead every man, woman, and child seemed to shift nervously in the packed, muddy gras beneath their sandaled feet. All that most of them could hear was the continual onslaught of the rain; thick, cold, and heavy on their lean, shivering figures. At the center of this chilling, somber occasion blazed to object of their collective focus.
Atop the Little brother, beneath the Great Rock itself, stood the birthing tent. Taller by far than the largest man, its octagonal perimeter of animal skins played a scene of shadows from within. Inside the tent, the fire was blazing as large as could possibly be safe, but outside in the camp there was not so much as a torch to be seen. No fires were allowed within the horizon of Kagakh during a birthing, none save the one that blazed at the center of the birthing tent. Within, standing between the great fire and the First Man’s wife, the high priestess held out her arms, baring her face to the fire. Her skin was flushed and damp with sweat, and in her hands she held a great jeweled scepter which smoked with scented oil, while her other hand held the long, curved sabre of the First Man. She was chanting incessantly:
Kanagon of star and sky
hear from us our desperate cry
bring us in this sacred land
a mighty son to bless your band
and let his life be ours to keep
until you wake from holy sleep
This blessing she repeated again and again, rising and falling with the mother’s anguished cries. Around the great priestess and the mother at her back, three girls in fine skins walked a nervous orbit, lifting and lowering casks of burning incense as they went. Outside this circle of gray, black and green smoke, the First man sat nervously on his throne of woven grass, the Nag-Shey.
He was covered in skins of black horsehair, and his hair was cut short, but on the back of his cheeks it grew into a thick, brown beard, tied into a large knot at its end. His elbows rested on his knees, and he covered his face in desperate prayer. His first and only son sat on the ground at his feet eyeing the spectacle with a child’s curiosity, his large, brown eyes glistening in the fire’s light.
Suddenly, the mother let out a long, painful scream that startled her son. Its high ring penetrated the tent walls and leapt out onto the silence gathered outside. A large man with a spot close to the tent drew a sharp breath, and then another scream rang out louder and even longer.
Again there was silence. The priestess stopped her chanting, and even the rain seemed to bow in reverence to the sanctity of the moment. The veil was pierced by the unmistakable complaints of a newborn baby. There was almost a sigh of relief, but that would have to wait a few moments more.
The flap of leather that was the tent’s door flew open, and the First Man carried his child out, wrapped in a white cloth. The high priestess followed, thrusting the sabre into the ground and taking hold of the horn slung about her shoulder. Raising the scepter high, she let out a high, ringing tone from the horn, which fell to a low rumble. A good sign, the child was neither malformed nor stillborn. The tone rolled along the hills to the west and the plains to the north, and then dissipated. Parting the horn from her lips, she drew a long, heavy breath and blew the horn once more. This time she rang a low, deep tone which rose again to the elated, high pitch of the first sound. The large man threw up his arms and confirmed with a joyous shout, “He will be a man!” In chorus, a great shout of celebration went up from the people, echoing in every direction across the hills, over the plain and against the great mountains above.
Suddenly, a great bolt of light pierced the sacred blackness and struck the priestess’ scepter. The scented oil that filled it ignited instantly, and the scepter exploded, covering her robes with flaming oil and shrapnel as it exploded toward her. Flaming, her back arched as her limbs tensed unnaturally from the shock. As she stood, aflame and held in place, she let out a piercing shriek of agony. Slowly, just as the sound of the bolt and her scream died out, reverberating once, twice, and three times across the assembled Kagiym, the flaming priestess fell to her knees and collapsed, dead.
A few who had been standing close to the priestess had collapsed. None of the oil or shrapnel and hit them, but a few were still simply shocked by the force and sound of the bolt, and a few others simply collapsed in terror, while others who had been very close fell to their knees, screaming in pain as they clutched their ears. All eyes were suddenly cast on the First Man.
He stood, bewildered for a moment. His face betrayed nothing, no fear and no confusion, but his mind was racing. A small trickle of blood from his left ear, imperceptible in the essential darkness of the camp, betrayed the secret of the pain that racked his skull. But he stood tall, holding his son and maintaining a dramatic silence as his mind raced to cope with his pain and explain this to his people.
Explaining is the priestess’ job, he thought to himself, but then again if I do not explain it, some weak man who hates me will, and the people will rise up against me. He paused for another moment, he had an idea, but he had to begin speaking before someone else did.
He stepped forward, powerful and imposing from his high position. Clutching the child tightly in his right arm, he moved to where his sabre was stuck in the ground. With his left, he pulled the massive blade from out of the earth, and raised its long, sharp edge high above his head. “Be still, my people,” he began, “it is a fair omen, though it does not seem so. See, the scepter and the priestess have taken the blow which would have belonged to my sabre and my throne! Even so, my son, my second son who you see before you, shall protect the throne of his brother and his father, and his father’s father, twelve generations back to the day we claimed this land as our own!”
A nervous silence, they wanted more. “So here, in the sight of the Great Stone, in the sight of our people, I Kagóm, First Man of the Kagiym and Sworn Sword of the Sleeping Sovereign, name and title him Kan-Nag, Protector of the Throne!” Half for dramatic effect and half for weariness, he brought the great blade down into the dirt once more, and with both arms he raised his son above his head and shouted in his loudest voice, “Kan! Nag! The people were quiet for just a moment, but the large man raised his fist and answered, “Kan! Nag!”
In hardly a moment, the whole assembly of the Kagiym were jumping and shouting the name of their prince. All along the hill and through the camp, great fires were gratefully lit in celebration of the prince’s birth. Almost instantly the deadened, silent, dark camp became a bright, joyous, thundering city of tents. Great bushels of corn and wheat were brought out, along with full lambs, cows and horses for feasting. One by one all kinds of wines, milks, beers and spirits were brought out in flasks, barrels, bottles and skins until enough had been spilled that one could see the beverage of choice for a family or tent by the color spilt onto the grass below. The people brought out drums and flutes and harps and other instruments from distant lands with distant names. For hours, everywhere in the tent city there was singing and dancing and feasting and drinking. The only place with any stillness was the birthing tent, where the great fire had been reduced to a shade.
Eventually, when most of the people below had either gone to sleep or fallen to it in a gluttoned, drunken stupor, the First Man held his wife in his arms, as she held their newborn son in his own. The tent was dark now, with only a few embers to light the great space, and only the three of them to feel their warmth. Laid out on a great bearskin, he pulled her ever so slightly toward him again, taking a deep breath and soaking in the moment for all it was worth.
His wife was understandably less comfortable. “What do you truly think it means?,” she asked in a low voice. “Truly?,” he began, lifting his head as she turned to look him in the eye, “I do not know.” He sighed, standing to find a wineskin. “Neither do the wise women, I have asked them.”
He took a long drink of the nearest skin. “I do not know, and neither do they, whether it is a fair omen or an ill omen. Some think that it is not an omen at all, that perhaps the priestess was unholy and punished by the heavens. One thinks that it was not a divine act at all, that it simply happened. I do not know who to believe.” He took another long drink and laid back down, looking into the eyes of his newborn son. “This I do know,” he said with a cold harshness, “If it is a sign, whether fair or foul, it is a great one.”
Outside, the rain had subsided to light sprinkle, but the edge of the larger storm was still visible across the vast plain. On its edge, a bolt of light struck the earth, just on the crest of the horizon. The impact sent a low rumble of thunder across the leather city’s slumber, a rumble which came back once, twice, and three times against the great peaks. Slowly but surely, sleep had taken all of the congregation, and a still silence lay over the hilltops. There was no moon; the night was black, thick, and viscous. A sleepy darkness had laid its burden over all creation like a mother’s gentle embrace.