Chapter 16 - Lionheart
The Wild Eden. SW Asia.
With no dog to assist, a bereaved Ittidu ushers the small herd of goats along a dusty drove. Under the hot afternoon sun she frequently sprints along the sides of the scrawny beasts, to prevent them wandering away from the trail. This is hard work when the poor maiden has so little energy left in reserve. Ittidu is diminishing.
Yesterday Lultum stepped out from his mud house in a foul mood. Dog was the first to be blamed, for crossing his shadow. The grumpy barbarian sank his boot into the poor beast’s ribs, before it retreated whining. Later Ittidu retired to her stale straw to find Dog’s lifeless body there.
She consoled herself ‘Dog is free of this miserable existence’.
This morning she reported Dog’s demise to his murderer. Demonstrating no remorse, Lultum instructed her to add Dog’s mortal shell onto a midden as fertiliser. He was angered that the hound had escaped his duties, and this worsened his mood the duration of the morning. Lultum grouched at Ittidu that his goats be driven to the scrub of the still wild Eden, so they might enrich their milk. Ittidu has learned it's pointless at best, and dangerous at worst to contradict her master. Yet she dared to remind him he no longer owns a herding dog.
His cheek muscles bunched as he snapped, ‘That’s your fault you clumsy girl’ before he slapped the leather of an old sling into her calloused hand. He growled, ‘Get going Girl, and bring them home for milking at dusk. Lest you give me reason to make you sorry’. Lultum turned his back onto her.
She stared empty eyed at the tattered material in her hand, and pondered,
'My punishment for evading his clutches is to face the wilds alone with no more than this for protection’. As a priest-chieftain’s daughter, Ittidu never felt compelled to practise with such a weapon.
The Drove
She marches the trail acting as her own canine assistant. Exhaustion combines with grief as an uncomfortable mixture. Her legs tremble weakened by starvation as her greatest fear looms ahead. Ittidu tells herself,
‘It matters not if I perish’.
The herd reaches the wide open steppe of scrub and grassland. Goats settle as Ittidu presses a hand against her cramped belly. Ittidu realises her ribs protrude more noticeably, and her legs shake, urging to sit down for rest. A twisted tamarisk offers itself as her shade. She sits down easing discomfort,
‘Just for a little while’ she promises with a faint voice. ‘Only until my strength returns’. Ittidu’s last meal was a stale biscuit the previous morning. Lultum would have made her fall to her knees to beg for supper, and this she wouldn't yet do. The mean farmer’s demands grow more grotesque as she fades. Again she imagines herself as that bony and toothless field wretch working the soils as her master’s cuckoo spawn suckle away what little of her brutal life remains.
Such tragedies are commonplace in the degeneracy.
I’m tired and weak. Ittidu’s heavy eyelids drop down and it takes willpower to lift them back up. She lifts a punitive hand to slap her own face, ‘I must remain awake and watch the goats’. A demonic thought seduces, Just allow one eye to close at a time? That feels so nice. Maybe allow both eyes to close for a few seconds?
Night-time on the Wild Steppe
‘I’m so cold!’ she croaks out aloud. ‘Where’s my blanket and straw?’ Finally, Ittidu awakens to grasp for this comfort only to draw the dust of the Eden under her broken fingernails. She jolts up and discovers she isn't beneath Lultum’s lean-to, but is outside, alone, on the wild steppe at night. Realities jumble into panic as they race into a resurrect consciousness. Ittidu leaps up to her feet and calls out in the darkness for her charges.
Nighttime silhouettes of shrubs illuminated by little more than starlight, stand free of any sign of Lultum’s livestock. The only response to her calls is a gentle breeze from the desert, to rustle leaves beneath the starry canopy of a clear night sky. Visions of facing Lultum absent of his bearded beasts drive her mad with worry. At first this panic overrides her childhood fear of the wilds at night, and she stumbles around crying out for the goats to reappear. Between black patches of foliage she searches.
Finally the truth of her vulnerability out here arrives. Out on the wild Eden at night. Ittidu becomes nervous, and stoops down to pick up pebbles with one hand, as the other unfurls the sling. Instincts scream out to immediately flee back down the trail through the watered gardens and to the sanctuary of farmsteads. Maybe Ittidu will stare behind one more dark patch of scrub and in the shadows of starlight she'll find the herd. Then all could still end well.
The Great Cat
The great cat, this young lion, has fallen onto hard times. A youthful male he was perceived as a threat and cruelly evicted from the pride by his father. Since then Lion has wandered alone and hungry. His mother and aunts had always nourished him with the prize of their games. They had the social skills to execute clever ambushes. Now Lion ambles across this desert edge steppe either in search of a vulnerable pride, or to join more bachelor lions in common plight. So far Lion has not had such fortune and time flows against his chances of success. Any pride he’s encountered, has driven him away to lick more wounds of failure. Lion is extremely hungry.
It was shortly after sunset that his sensitive nose picked up on the scent of goats undefended by dogs. Here in darkness. Deliciously vulnerable. It’d almost been too easy for Lion. His nose led him through tall grasses to one particular goat. She sprawled there bloated with gas, her fat udder dripping with milk. Silently Lion crawled on his feline belly until close enough to pounce. The nanny failed to rise up to her cloven feet before he smashed in her head with his powerful paw, and ripped open her sweet, sweet throat. Food at last, Lion needs to regain strength before challenging another pride.
Here he lies peacefully, close to the left overs of his meal, digesting the first serving. What’s that sound? Lion hears Ittidu calling. Lion can smell her fear. He sticks out his tongue and tastes it in the night air.
Her eyes report the crazy smile on a dead goat’s face, its ribcage open and exposed to the stars above. Ittidu’s mind resists this truth and demands to see another. Her eyes strain when she spies something in the background of monochrome carnage. Starlight reflects from the cat eyes of a huge beast. They stare into her soul.
The aroma of Ittidu’s dread continues to tease his senses. Lion feels too sated to play a new game. But this rude intruder, an upstart primate, raised up on her haunches, threatens his tasty prize and beckons for sport. Perhaps Lion could use her mutilated body as a toy to practise the art upon? Lion gleefully recalls his playful games with cubmates. Alas the cub is gone and now he’s the wild beast that this wretched ape taunts. He rises up to his paws.
More meat for the ‘morrow eh? He observes as her nervous hands fumble with some scrap of skin. Lion gauges distance to pounce.
Hands tremble uncontrollably as Ittidu attempts to load a pebble into the puny sling. It falls aside and onto the ground. Death is now certain.
Two beads suddenly collide. Ittidu’s consciousness is forced aside as the presence of the other enters to take control. It's the spirit of Ur’salla who rapidly selects a heavy pebble perfect for short distance. She locks Ittidu’s body into an athletic posture to maximise rotation of the loaded sling. Lion registers some change of greytone within the eyes of his quarry, too late because he’s launched his sprint of death and cannot cancel performance. The sling accelerates in rotational velocity. The Moon sisters’ posture stands confident. Lion’s claws extend as he pounces. The pebble is released as a missile with a short distance to its target. A few milliseconds of powerful flight before it impacts with the huge face of Lion.
Thick skull-bone cracks with such force that splinters of it shred brain tissues. Such strength, courage and skill that Ittidu has never possessed, but a huntress in a far away world does.
Poor Lion. Executed by a humble stone similar to the spent stone you hold in your hand. Lion’s last thought is lost in darkness. A spot of bright light will beckon his soul. Brain death halts a mighty heart beat and his empty corpse collapses at the feet of an upright ape. No longer a thou.
Ur’salla’s essence rips back out to return to her own world, leaving Ittidu unable to maintain her own consciousness. Legs collapse, allowing her to drop down with her head falling onto the pillow of great paws.
Awakening
Delightful aromas tease at Ittidu’s nose. Awareness increases of a nearby woman chanting guttural words. Ittidu lifts eyelids to see above, a canvas stitched from dark goat skins. She has been dressed in linens, and lies on comfortable sheepskins.
Where am I? This is neither the wild Eden, nor Lultum’s hovel. She remembers being alone at night on the dark steppe. Was that real or a nightmare? The eyes of that big cat as it leapt into the air at me?
Ittidu knows she’s alive and this isn't the underworld. She tries to understand what has happened. The goat skin canvas of a tent flaps in a gentle breeze, the semitic chanting, these are the belongings of the nomad tribes. She’s been washed and cared for. By her side, kneels a wrinkled, brown skinned old woman rocking to and thro as she chants. Ittidu takes this crone to be her nurse. Ittidu tilts up her head towards the source of the aroma to see the terracotta figure of a lizard headed goddess. Its hands support a tiny copper bowl of oil over a small flame.
Weakness prevents her from sitting up. This alerts the old nurse that her patient is conscious. The nomad ceases her chants, and a smile stretches her wrinkles, before she issues some prayer to spirits. Ittidu hears sounds beyond the canvas, sheep bleating, and desert children playing.
Nurse is pleased to see her patient alert and cries out more foreign words to those outside of the tent. A flap of goatskin is brushed aside, and in steps a pretty desert orchid, with curly dark hair and beauteous brown eyes. She brings with her a cup cradled in her hands. Nurse barks a command at the girl, and Ittidu is shuffled up onto furs, with the cup in her own hands.
Ittidu rasps to her carers, ‘Th thank you’. She tips it and her tongue is greeted by a rich fatty milk sweetened with dates. The nurse grunts at the pretty girl, who leaves the tent. Ittidu’s throat soothed she tries to thank the old nurse,
‘You’ve been so kind, thank you so much for your hospitality’ But all she gets back from the woman is an expression of puzzlement.
The tent flap moves, but it doesn’t return the pretty girl, rather a tall, well groomed handsome man steps in. His cheeks are rosy, and his beard dark. He’s dressed in the finest of fabrics to indicate high status,
Perhaps this handsome fellow is the chieftain of this nomadic clan? Still youthful, the desert prince carries himself with authority as he glides to the side of Ittidu. Kneeling he mutters more guttural words of the nomad’s tongue.
In response, Ittidu nods her head, and apologies, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t understand you. I don’t speak your language’.
The nomad prince inspects her eyes and smiles warmly. He takes one of Ittidu’s calloused hands into his own soft yet manly mitts. Momentarily, Ittidu wonders if she did die on the grasslands, and this is a paradise her spirit has entered. Finally he speaks in her own language,
‘Forgive me, we didn’t think you were of Eden’s garden communes. I’m Tabell, son of Nabaqah, of the Qabelya tribe’.
In acknowledge of her understanding, Ittidu wiggles her head as a prompt for him to carry on,
‘My shepherds found you unconscious on the grassy margins between desert and gardens, and brought you to our camp. May I know your name?’ His kind smile is infectious, and the gentleness of his hand is comforting. Ittidu has to push more blushes aside so she might answer his question,
‘I’m Ittidu, daughter of Arrapu, chieftain and sanga of the holy marshes and of Nammu’s temple’.
Concern haunts Tabell’s face before he reacts, ‘I feel honoured to have you as my guest. Your father’s compassionate reputation has fallen onto the ears of the Qabelya. I must ask, what news do you have of him?’
She forces back the tears and tension rides in her voice ‘I know he was murdered by guruš acting under the authority of Uguli and the E-engur’.
His strong hand grips tighter with sympathy, ‘My condolences, Ittidu. This terrible news of injustice had reached our camp. I want you to know the Qabelya tribe are no friends of Uguli of Engur. He greedily demands a tribute from the drovers of the desert which we refuse. Remain here as an honoured guest until the time of your restoration’.
Tabell releases her hand, reaches inside of his robes, producing a battered old sling, ‘Satisfy my curiosity, and tell me what you recall of this?’
Her throat clams, and she has to finish off the sweetened milk which gives her time to consider her answer.
How can I explain Ur’salla without frightening away these saviours with taboos of witchcraft? She decides to tell her story free of any tales of a spiritual possession,
‘I had been tasked to lead a goat herd to browse on the scrub when darkness fell. I found myself confronted by a great cat, a lion.’
‘Clearly you survived for us to bring you to my camp’.
‘I must have stung it with my pebble and that sling. The lion must have taken fright because breath indeed passes my throat’.
Appearing satisfied with this partial truth, Tabell turns to the old nurse, and issues to her an instruction in their semitic language. The nurse raises her arms and stifles a curse before hesitantly submitting to the will of her young lord. Tabell grins back at Ittidu, and using the floodplain language asks her,
‘Should you wish to view my camp, I could act as your crutch to take you to the entrance of this tent?’
Should she wish? Yes, Ittidu would like this handsome prince’s assistance at the edge of the tent. ‘Yes please!’ she exclaims perhaps a little too keenly.
Tabell and the nurse help Ittidu up to shaky legs. One step at a time, he escorts her to the flap of goat skin which acts as a doorway. There, Tabell uses his free hand to fling it open. The welcome breeze of warm desert air dances across her cheeks. Her ears hadn't deceived her. Children run around playing games as fathers corral brown haired sheep with curled horns into makeshift enclosures. She closes her eyes to fully appreciate her new found fortune.
Am I free of the nightmare? No longer to be enslaved to Lultum? She knows Nammu has blessed her to be rescued by these kind people. This joyful reflection is broken by Tabell. She reopens her eyes as he brazenly announces,
‘Behold’. His hand waves across then points at a frame on the edge of his camp. Ittidu focuses on what this consists of. Made of poles, it's a drying frame. A large, freshly scraped hide has been stretched across it. Ittidu suddenly takes in what this hide belonged to,
The skin of th… the LION!’
Tabell sees the recognition on her face, and he boasts, ‘There you see the skin of the great beast that you slaughtered, Ittidu, daughter of the martyr En Arrapu. You're the daughter of the holy commune of Nammu, and chosen by spirits to be the fearless slayer of the Lion’.
Her legs tremble with increased vigour. Ittidu hears the unguarded curses of the old nurse who rushes up from behind to break her patient’s fall.