The Wall of Storms, page 9
Others decided to form strange alliances to exploit the unique skills of each creature of Dara. The mighty cruben, sovereign of the seas, allied itself with the glowing sea cucumber—half animal, half plant—so that the illumination from the latter might reveal any gods hiding in the dark recesses of deep undersea trenches and enable the former to catch them; the winter plum, the bamboo, and the pine, the three hardiest plants of winter, allied with the heat-loving desert toad so that while the bamboo groves, pine forests, and winter plum copses whispered to each other across snow-capped peaks, the toads could scour the volcanic calderas; the wolf, fiercest predator on land, made a pact with the clinging vine so that as the wolf packs searched the deep woods and howled, the gods running and dodging might be ensnared by soft vine-webs.
From morning till noon, and from noon till evening, the gods were found one by one.
First, the pine forests, bamboo groves, and winter plum copses, surveying every spot touched by ice in the islands, discovered Lady Rapa in the Wisoti Mountains as a delicate face carved into the glasslike surface of a frozen waterfall. Shortly after this discovery, the toads found Lady Kana as a jagged crack in a vitreous screen of obsidian.
The alliance of fire and ice had paid off.
But not all alliances had such happy endings. The arrogant cruben dove straight for the heart of a swirling patch of turbulence in one of the deepest trenches of the sea, whose inky gloom was illuminated by hundreds of glowing sea cucumbers attached to the head of the cruben like jewels encrusting the tip of a ceremonial staff of power. But at the last minute, right before the cruben closed its jaws gently about the laughing form of shape-shifting Tazu, the sovereign of the seas shook its head and discarded the sea cucumbers from its adamantine scales like a water buffalo shaking loose the gnats clinging to its head. While the cruben shot for the surface in a triumphant surge, the poor, soft, glowing tubes drifted helplessly into the bottomless void like falling stars cast out of heaven.
Such was the risk of serving at the pleasure of the mighty and powerful.
“Mama, why are those with the most power always so bad?”
“Mimi-tika, is the fisherman evil who harvests the fruits of the sea? Is the farmer evil who cuts off ears of sorghum? Is the weaver evil who boils the cocoon of the silkworm and unravels its debut dress—now a shroud?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Great lords—whether mortal or immortal—do what they do because their concerns are not ours. We suffer because we are the grass upon which giants tread.”
In a secluded cove on the northwestern coast of the Big Island, the whales plying the shores of the Islands of Dara discovered an ancient sea turtle whose shell was as cracked as the coral reefs peeking out of the sea.
The whales surrounded the turtle and splashed it playfully with sprays from their blowholes, painting a fine rainbow with the mist.
“Lord Lutho,” said the leader of the whales, a massive dome-headed cow whose gray eyes had seen hundreds of springs, “you are hiding exactly the way we predicted you would.”
The ancient turtle laughed and transformed into the dark-skinned divine seer, the fisherman of dreams and omens. “How do you know that you have not found me exactly the way I predicted you would?”
The whales were confused by this.
“If you had foreseen that we would look for you here,” asked the whale, “why did you not hide somewhere else?”
Lutho smiled and pointed at the rainbow, now fading as the whale-mist gradually dissipated.
“Was it because though you could foresee the future, you could not change it?” The whale asked a different question.
Lutho smiled and pointed to the rainbow.
“Was it because you had foreseen the future but decided that the vision was what you wanted after all?” The whale tried yet a third time.
Lutho smiled and pointed to the rainbow, now barely a hint in the air.
“Was it because—” But this time, the whale couldn’t complete the question. Lutho had disappeared along with the rainbow.
“Mama, why did Lord Lutho point to the rainbow instead of answering?”
“Nobody knows, my baby. The whales didn’t, and neither did your father, our parents, grandparents, or their grandparents before them. That’s why it’s called a mystery. I suppose sometimes the gods have lessons for us we can’t understand through words alone.”
“I think Lord Lutho is not a very good teacher.”
“Good teachers are as rare as the cruben among whales, or the dyran among fish.”
It was no surprise that Lady Tututika, last born of the gods and the one who took the most pleasure in beauty, was ensnared by the symphony of coconuts rhythmically pounding the sea and the golden veil dance of the carp—she manifested herself at the mouth of the Sonaru River, and it is said that one can still get a glimpse of that heavenly dance in the motions of the veil dancers of Faça as musicians tap out beats on their coconut drums.
Neither was it a surprise when Lord Rufizo manifested himself when a yearling fawn tripped and injured himself in the rocky highlands near fog-shrouded Boama. How could the god of healing stand idly by when living creatures injured themselves in pursuit of the gods?
“At least Dara will enjoy a year mild as the deer every cycle of twelve years,” said the green-caped divine healer, and the deer leapt around him in joy at being elevated among the Calendrical Dozen.
And finally, as the sun set in the west, Lord Kiji, the patron of ambitious flight and soaring fancy and wide-open skies, surveyed the Islands of Dara in the form of a Mingén falcon gliding over Dara. The bird, dizzied by a pungent pillar of floral aroma emanating from a garden of blooming chrysanthemums near the meeting place of the Damu and Shinané Mountains, fell out of the sky in a spiraling descent, and as he landed, a pack of wolves pounced on him, holding him down.
“I am caught by the king of flowers and the king of beasts!” said the god of all those who yearned to be above others. “I would call this not a bad way to end the day.”
And there was much celebration in Dara, for the gods sometimes behaved as their natures dictated.
The wolf, however, was not quite as joyous as the others among the Calendrical Dozen; this was because the wolf was the pawi of Lord Fithowéo, and Fithowéo was missing.
“The god of warfare and strife?”
“Yes, baby, those are the domains of Lord Fithowéo.”
“It would have been better if he had never been found. Without him, there would be no wars and all the suffering that comes from them.”
“Ah my Mimi-tika, things are rarely that simple when it comes to the gods.”
As you have probably already figured out, this contest came after the Diaspora Wars, when the divine siblings had fought along with vast armies, and brother had turned on brother, sister on sister.
In one of those battles, in order to protect the hero Iluthan, Fithowéo had fought Kiji for ten days and ten nights. In the end, Kiji’s lightning bolts had taken away Fithowéo’s eyes, blinding him. And so it was that the blind god had not participated in the discussion concerning the calendar but hid himself in an obscure cave deep under the Wisoti Mountains, nursing his wounds and avoiding all living creatures.
Water dripped from the stalactites high overhead, and other than clumps of mushroom glowing here and there like faint stars in the night sky, there was no illumination in the cave. The blind god sat by himself, unmoving and mute.
A scent tickled his nose, so faint that he wasn’t sure whether he was just imagining it. But it was a sweet smell, simple and humble, like a trace of mint in a glass of water after a thundershower, like the lingering fragrance of soap bean on freshly laundered robes left in the sun, like the flavor of cooking fire that caresses a weary traveler’s nose after a long night of hard hiking.
And so, without even realizing that he was doing it, Fithowéo got up and walked toward the scent, following his nostrils.
The smell grew stronger—a night-blooming orchid, he decided, and in his mind arose the image of a white flower with a large labellum like a rolled-up tongue that hid the stiff column in the middle, and four translucent petals that stood above the labellum like the translucent wings of a moth. He moved yet closer to the source of the smell, and as the diaphanous wings brushed his nose, he stuck out his tongue and traced the shapes of the petals. Yes, it was indeed the night-blooming orchid, whose shape was a faint echo of the moth that was said to be its sole pollinator, which emerged only in darkness and under starlight. It was a simple flower that was little valued by the ladies and gardeners, who preferred something more showy and ornate.
The tip of his tongue tasted the sweetness of nectar.
“I can taste sorrow on your tongue,” came a whispered voice.
The god drew back, surprised.
“What could make a god sad?” asked the voice. Fithowéo realized that it was coming from the center of the flower he had kissed.
“What is the good of a god of war who cannot see?” a morose Fithowéo said.
“Can you not see?” asked the orchid.
The god pointed to his empty eye sockets, and when no reply came from the orchid, he realized that of course, in this dark cave, the orchid couldn’t see either.
“I cannot,” he said. “My brother blinded me with lightning bolts.”
“But who told you that you were blind?”
“Of course I’m blind!”
“Have you tried to see?”
Fithowéo shook his head. The orchid was not a creature that could be reasoned with.
“I can see,” said the orchid, “even though I don’t have eyes.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Fithowéo.
“I saw you,” said the orchid, utterly confident.
“What do you mean?”
“I reached out with my fragrance until the tendrils drew you to me,” said the orchid. “It took a while, but I saw.”
“That is not seeing,” declared Fithowéo.
“I can tell you that there are a dozen bats hanging on the ceiling above us,” said the orchid. “I can tell you that there is a swarm of moths who visits me every evening, though none of them is my match. I can tell you that there are furry moles who sniff around this cave when winters are rough. I know these things that you do not, and yet you tell me that I cannot see.”
“That . . .” Fithowéo was without words for a moment. “All right, I suppose that is a kind of seeing.”
“There are many kinds of seeing,” said the orchid. “Didn’t the Ano sages tell us that sight is simply light emanating from the eyes being reflected back by the world?”
“Actually—” Fithowéo started to say.
But the orchid didn’t let him finish. “I see by shooting out lines of fragrance into the world and drawing back what they touch. If you don’t have eyes, you must find other ways of seeing.”
Fithowéo sniffed the air around him. He could detect the musk of the mushrooms to the left and a stronger, second floral scent—sharper, brighter than the fragrance of the orchid. “Is that a cave rose to the right?”
“Yes,” said the orchid.
“And there’s something else,” said Fithowéo, sniffing the air again. “It smells like mud and the bog.”
“Very good, there’s a pool on the other side of me, filled with wormweed and tiny white fish who have lost their eyes because it’s so dark here.”
Fithowéo took a deep breath and separated the faint smell of the fish from the rest.
“You see,” said the orchid, “you’re already constructing a map of smells.”
Fithowéo realized that it was true. As he turned his face from side to side, he could almost see the glowing mushrooms and the cave roses blooming next to the wall of the cave, as well as the pool of ice-cold water beyond the orchid. Their shapes were indistinct, like a blurry vision after he had had too many flagons of mead.
But after a moment of joy, he was plunged into depression again.
“I can’t just stand around like you,” said Fithowéo. “Smells may be sufficient for a flower rooted to the earth. But they’re not enough for a god of rage and motion.”
The orchid said nothing.
“When fate has taken away your weapons,” said Fithowéo, “sometimes you must yield.”
The orchid said nothing.
“When you have no more hope after a battle fairly fought,” said Fithowéo, “the more honorable course is to give in to despair.”
The orchid said nothing.
Fithowéo strained his ears in the darkness, and he heard something that sounded like the rustling of silk.
“Are you laughing?” Fithowéo roared. “You dare to laugh at my misfortune?”
He stood up and lifted his foot. The smell of the orchid was enough for him to fix her position. A step forward and he would be able to grind the orchid under his foot, flattening her against the jagged floor of the cave.
“I am laughing at a coward who claims to be a god,” said the orchid. “I am laughing at an immortal who does not even understand his own duty.”
“What are you talking about? I am the god of wars and battles! I must see the light glancing off a swinging blade and meet it with my battered shield. I must see the speeding arrow to bat it aside with my gauntleted arm. I must see the foe escaping on foot to pierce him with my enduring spear. What good is a map of smells?”
“Listen,” said the orchid.
Fithowéo listened. In the silence of the cave, other than the irregular dripping of water, there seemed to be no other sound.
“Open your ears,” said the orchid. “You have come to a place of darkness, where eyes that see only with light are useless. Do you think creatures who make this place home stumble through their lives?”
And Fithowéo listened harder: He seemed to hear shrill squeaks, so high-pitched that they were barely audible, crisscrossing the air overhead.
“The bats see by shooting out rays of sound from their throat and catching the echoes with their ears as they bounce back.”
Fithowéo listened, and now he realized that the air was filled with another sound: wings beating rapidly against air. The bats were swooping gracefully in wide arcs near the ceiling of the cave.
“Dip your hands into the water,” said the orchid.
And Fithowéo dipped his hands into the cold water, and he felt a tingling all over his hands, even after he got used to the numbing cold.
“The tiny white fish who live in the water flex their muscles and nerves to generate invisible lines of force that suffuse the water,” said the orchid. “Like the mysterious force that fills the air before a thunderstorm, the invisible lines flex and twist around living beings, and so the blind fish see with their bodies.”
Fithowéo concentrated and he could indeed feel invisible lines of force lapping at his arm, and he imagined the ripples of force echoing back to the tiny fish.
“You call yourself a god of war, but war is not merely the music of steel sword against wooden shield, or the chorus of speeding arrows thunking into leather armor. War is also the domain of struggling against overwhelming odds that neither Tazu nor Lutho would touch, the realm of snatching life from the jaws of fiery Kana without Rufizo as your ally, the province of depriving a superior enemy force of the comfort of restful Rapa using only your wits, the territory of finding an unexpected path to humble proud Kiji despite the lack of all advantages, and the sphere of constructing out of ugliness beauty that would shock extravagant Tututika.
“You have become used to victory achieved at little expense against mere mortals, even if they are deemed heroes. But war consists of not only victories; it is also about fighting and losing, and losing only to fight again.
“A god of war is also the god of those who are caught in the wheel of eternal struggle, who fight on despite knowledge of certain defeat, who stand with their companions against spear and catapult and gleaming metal, armed with only their pride, who strive and assay and press and toil, all the while knowing that they cannot win.
“You are not only the god of the strong, but also the god of the weak. Courage is better displayed when it seems all is lost, when despair appears the only rational course.
“True courage is to insist on seeing when all around you is darkness.”
And Fithowéo stood up and ululated. As his voice filled the cave walls and bounced back to his ears, he seemed to see the stalactites hanging overhead like bejeweled curtains, the stalagmites growing out of the ground like bamboo shoots, the bats careening through the air like battle kites, the night-blooming orchids and cave roses blooming like living treasure—the cave was filled with light.
The god of war laughed and bowed down to the orchid and kissed her. “Thank you for showing me how to see.”
“I am but the lowest of the Hundred Flowers,” said the orchid. “But the tapestry of Dara is woven not only from the proud chrysanthemum or the arrogant winter plum, the bamboo who holds up great houses or the coconut who provides sweet nectar and pleasing music. Chicory, dandelion, butter-and-eggs, ten thousand species of orchids, and countless other flowers—we have no claim to the crests of the great noble families, and we are not cultivated in gardens and not gently caressed by the fingers of great ladies and eager courtiers. But we also fight our war against hail and storm, against drought and deprivation, against the sharp blade of the weeding hoe and the poisonous emanations of the herbicide-sprayer. We also have a claim on time, and we deserve a god who understands that every day in the life of the common flower is a day of battle.”
