Chapter 23 - Children of the Sun
Western Eurasia
Where did these invaders of our wilds bring their degeneracy from? I’ve mentioned rumours that they spawned their agriculture in worlds beyond our seas. These suggest those barbarians who follow the trinity, originate from a world of the sunrise, while the Sheonni who follow a sun goddess, crossed the sea from a world of the high sun.
Here in spirit form I can reveal their ancestors have been consuming the wilds of Eurasia for millennia.
It was on the hillsides of Anatolia where the degeneracy was first born. Their ancestors invented religion. They gathered together in large numbers to worship their new gods and it was through that necessity they encountered compliant kinds with which to build the first agriculture. The degeneracy became a virus, always it leads to more mouths to feed and to hunger for soils. Each generation, the degeneracy expands.
One wave of early barbarians crossed the Aegean exploiting the fertile soils of the Danube basin. Their descendants followed the light loess soils into the centre of Europe until some reached the Elbe and the Rhine. These early European farmers drove back savages to spread their agriculture along the waterways until they reached the North Sea. This was the path of those who follow their holy trinity of Ilua, Daghnu and Athiratu.
While all of this took place, many cousins from the eastern homeland took a more southerly route around the Mediterranean, Departing from Asian shores, sea faring farmers discovered Cyprus, North Africa, Sardinia and Malta. They explored the jagged coastlines and river valleys of Southern Europe. Some reached the Iberian Peninsular, and faced the Atlantic. Their grandchildren followed rivers to the north where they drove back the savages of Brittany. This was the path of those who follow the sun goddess named Saaba.
Like the pincers of a common neolithic claw, the barbarians of both Leva and Sheonni were set to cross the seas of north west Europe. Only lands in Scandinavia, the Baltic, Ireland and the British Isles remained as undisturbed sanctuaries of the last wild people.
It always leads to more mouths to feed. The farmers will always crave more soils. Their birth rate demands such growth. The virus persists into your future-time where it infects the last equatorial rainforests. Mathematical rows of corporate monoculture, mining scars into the Earth, and gigantic cattle ranges it leaves in its wake.
To return to my own lifetime, and to the natural wilderness to which I was born. Today the degeneracy claims my home. You see, the barbarians have examined the light soils which lay beneath the wildwoods of our valleys. They like what they've found.
Camp of Shurak. Wilds of Goshawk. SE Britain
Old Sharlla knelt onto a roebuck skin she'd pegged out for work. She used a stone scraper to tease away fat from the pelt. Her wrist ached from a lifetime of such efforts, but she knew that once clean this hide would make fine clothing. Sharlla might tan it into leather using the tannins of oak, or perhaps she'll burnish it using a stone? She could waterproof it using fats? She is proud of her skills as a seamstress. Our people are well dressed in our clothes. We're not so incompetent that we merely throw furs around our midriff.
A tall hat of beaver fur tilted forward to block Sharlla’s vision, prompting her to pause from the task. She pushed the hat back onto her crown. If Sharlla had trimmed this hat to sit upon her own head, it would have been snug. This hat she'd cut to fit the head of her beloved called Talidan. He has no need of it in the spirit forests, and Sharlla wears it in his honour. Each time the big hat slips forward, Sharlla recalls the shape of the head she'll always love. An unexpected odour reached Sharlla’s nose. She stood up to sniff at the camp air,
‘That can’t be right’ she muttered with intrigue. Sharlla wet a finger and tested the breeze. The air moved gently from the woods downstream, ‘Greenwood burning down the valley?’ She recognised the smoke did not originate within the camp, ‘It can’t be, why, snow still remains in the trees!’ Sharlla dropped down her scraper and jaunted to the shelters of other elders.
These elders of Shurak first requested for a scout to climb a high tree. It was Durran now-a-Man who was first to volunteer. Durran returned from his tree-top survey. The entire Ishi awaited his report, gathering by the sacred hearth. Before Durran could even speak up, his eyes pretold some dreadful news. Jamilan insisted,
‘Durran, take your time and catch your breath’.
Now-a-Man stuttered out his words. Words he could hardly believe himself,
‘The… the smoke rises from the woods downstream of our camp. Perhaps a short paddle away'.
There was a mumble. One uncle made the suggestion, ‘I’m sure it will be the campfire of some traveller’.
But Durran protested, ‘Please, there is more, much more that I could see from the tree top’.
Jamilan waved for silence from the murmuring crowd so Durran could continue,
‘I… I saw more plumes of smoke. Not only from that local fire, but more from further downstream. A… and then more again! The smoke rises to mark the course of our river as it meanders towards the sands of lost wives’.
This time the crowd fell silent. No one talked or grumbled. Rather, they all stared stupidly. Their mouths gaped vacant, trying to comprehend this observation. How could so many fires be lit across such a great stretch of damp forest? Their myths and legends hadn't prepared them for this. Durran had just reported an invasion by others.
It was Jamilan who broke the silence using a voice charged with urgency, ‘A band of warriors is required to investigate the most local source of this smoke’.
Watalão volunteered a suggestion, ‘We should go by foot because by water we shall be detected by whoever has lit that fire’
Jamilan nodded and added his amendment, ‘Yes, through the woods and employing stealth. Let us first find out who or what these interlopers are’.
Five Goshawk warriors quickly assembled and smeared their faces green. Our Ishi isn't strong in number, and these were all of the men that we had. Mikko. Durran, and Watalão were among our tiny army, along with a tall, grainy featured father named Qa’athon and a wiry fellow named Belthan. Mikko carried a war club and the others their spears. Shurak’s army melted into their wildwoods.
The Battle for Shurak
The sounds of barbarians alert the Goshawk men. Watalão signs for them to listen. They hear stone axe heads chipping at wood. Bovines bellowing. Men singing foreign songs while others exchange their alien insults. On tiptoes our men advance through the trees. Our kind are smart at being invisible to our prey. They peek from behind scrub or tree trunks, and they see strangers in our wilds. The barbarians have beached at the clearance of a natural windfall by the river. Here they labour together to extend this opening in the canopy. Using long handled adzes, tubby men hack at the undergrowth, while others rake the damage towards their smoky bonfire. They are making a camp.
Durran gapes idiotically when he sees a farmer coaxing a long horned ox that has been harnessed in reins of hide. The barbarian barks at the beast, demanding it drag away heavier debris. Never before has Durran seen a beast submit itself to a human master. Twisted ropes of hide strain as the master taps his birch across the hindquarters of the ox.
While Durran continues to gawp, Watalão assesses the defence of this attempted encampment. Some of the trespassers stride confidently into the Goshawk forest waving their destructive axes. These fools would be vulnerable to attack. Nevertheless, Watalão can already see these strangers outnumber their small band at least four to one. Pikes, bows and quivers have been carefully stacked by the riverside.
A cheer erupts across the foreigners when a long boat of wicker and cowhide arrives on the river. More barbarians are onboard to join those already present. Womenfolk and more of the servile oxen are among the passengers. Watalão signals to his comrades they should retreat a discreet distance to discuss their reaction to this trespass. The Goshawk warriors step away, and back into their wilds.
Safe from the eyes and earshot of the invaders, Watalão makes a proposal, ‘That these trespassers have the audacity to bring with them their women, tells us they are not simply passing through, but they intend to stay’.
A growl erupts out of big Mikko’s throat, ‘We must beat these Sun-devils back to their boats and then flush them away, as did our brave cousins in the Estuary of the Osprey’.
Watalão is more cautious, ‘Already they vastly outnumber us, and they bring bow with them. We should be more crafty with our warfare. First we should kill their foolish axemen who have strayed into the woods. We should think carefully before tackling them out in the open. There are so many of them’.
Caution as we already know is a characteristic Mikko the Wrestler lacks, ‘No! I say we spill their blood without any pause. Hit them hard and keep killing until the river flows red’.
The wiry warrior called Belthan gives his opinion, ‘The council of elders did recommend we show no mercy and expel any devils with speed’.
The band slides towards the opinion of Mikko. Durran puts his own fear aside to support this view, ‘I can’t return to camp as a coward. I say we spill blood without hesitation. These Sun-devils are small and fat. They’re farmers not fighters’.
Mikko pats Durran on the back and pulls him into a manly hold, ‘You my brother truly are a man. I promise you before the sun sets, you’ll feast on the still warm heart of these barbarians’.
Watalão’s motion is lost. He concedes, ‘In which case we'll teach these fools a lesson. Never again will they dare to trespass into the wilderness of Mother Goshawk. Let us spill their guts!’
Two men of Leva-kind take turns to swing axes that bite into the moist flesh of a young birch. Thin trees such as this will make corner posts for their new hurdles. In search of such materials, these men have wandered away from their new camp, and into the woods of savages.
Chop… chop… chop… chop… chop… chop… One of the two axemen swings his sharp stone at the cut in turn, as the other pulls away. Chop… chop… chop… thud! The synchronicity is broken. This prompts an axeman to squint across for his partner, but his eyes only report his friend lying on the ground with his body quivering, while a tall, dark-skinned savage with a face smeared green, stands over. The savage grins. He lifts up a war club already matted with blood and hair. The axeman cannot even scream before his own existence explodes.
Crack… that is the sound Mikko prefers to the chopping of trees.
Five brave savages charge forward with their spears and clubs. With rage they run through their own wilds. The alarm is raised as the barbarians detect an attack, and run back to the open clearance of their fledgling camp. Gleefully, Belthan brags to his comrades, ‘Ha you see how they flee? These trespassers are not devils but cowards’.
One unfortunate man working in the woods, a toothless, fat elder clad in a cowhide with a tall leather hat on his balding head, finds himself surrounded by savages. Watalão is the first to catch him. These barbarians might be of shorter stature than the savages, yet they can be stocky and muscular. This old barbarian spits out a curse at Watalão, and swings his farmer’s axe at him.
The savage warrior almost takes the stone axehead into his soft belly, but he reacts faster and leaps back to avoid the blow. Watalão lurches forward with his spear which he thrusts hard into the old man’s rib cage. Foreign curses gargle with blood from his mouth as a tall hat falls to the leaf mould. The sad eyes of a dying old man roll and Watalão shakes his bloody pike free. He feels no honour in taking the life of an elder.
A crazy young savage runs by this murder scene. Durran’s eyes are filled with madness. He sticks out his tongue and waves his spear at retreating barbarians. Durran screams out damnation as the devils run to the clearing.
The lanky, grainy faced father named Qa’athon throws a lucky javelin. It strikes the rump of a fleeing farmer. The poor man falls screaming in horrible pain. Loyal barbarian brothers drag him from the woods with the spear protruding from his arse.
Mikko pauses from his charge to chortle at this sight, ‘Let’s drive these cowardly trespassers back into the stream. Watch them! Listen to how they scream in fear of the men of the Goshawk’.
He runs out from the edges of the dense woods, and out into the farmers’ new clearance. Mad eyed Durran with his wagging tongue follows closely behind.
In their triumphant rage, these brave men of the Goshawk had failed to see the danger ahead. The Leva have had to deal with savage attacks for millenia and they have their strategy of defence. While the women hide in the boat, the men fall into rows of pikemen and archers to defend this stand in the open. Here, free of tree cover, their arrows may fly free. This style of fighting is strange to the savages of the Goshawk wilds.
Remaining blinded by pride, Mikko runs roaring at his clever enemies who await him by the riverside. They release their bow strings at him. One arrow pierces his thigh, another leaf-shaped stone arrowhead chips at his pelvis, while a third strikes him into an eye. He falls down to his knees, battle cries transforming into a hideous scream. The champion wrestler of Shurak, collapses into the dirt.
Durran reaches him and kneels down by his bucking comrade’s side, ‘Mikko, my brother you must get back up!’ Durran demands this of a bucking corpse. A Leva arrow strikes Durran's left shoulder. Then another into the same arm. Durran is too traumatised to even see the two Leva pikemen who advance on him. They intend to enjoy his execution. Tears well in his eyes, as he goes on to demand, ‘Mikko, please get up!’
The two Leva pikemen reach Durran to cackle at the sight of this savage who’s lost his mind. One pot-bellied barbarian raises his sharp pike with intent of impaling the youth. The unexpected thrusting spear of another savage strikes the pikeman in his face. Bone shatters and a face is disfigured as Watalão’s spearhead carved from antler, passes straight through the man’s head. The blood of a barbarian splatters over a green faced youth sporting the shafts of farmer’s arrows. Durran, covered in gore, screeches insanely. Watalão grabs hold of him, as the other Leva pikeman runs back to his ranks, yelling for the cover of more arrows. The green faces of Belthan and Qa’athon come forward, providing their support, as Durran is dragged back screaming to the woods. Fear etches these green faces when they see the Leva archers draw their strings. The Goshawk men scarper back into tree cover.
These failed warriors of Shurak beat a hasty retreat, melting back into their wildwoods. They aid Durran into their campsite, and to the den of Hungalla the midwife. Wild eyed they report on the martyrdom of Mikko. A council of every person is called but elders grow tired before any further action can be resolved. They adjourn until the morning.
Peace-talks
It was as Su’lan had prophesied to myself. The Children of the Goshawk had been caught in their winter slumber, half asleep in hibernation. They’d foolishly argued, Surely the foreigners would be resting? This assumption had been wrong. The barbarians are fuelled by their produce of herding and agriculture, and they are so many more than any nation of wild folk.
It’s following sunrise the following day that the watch of Shurak sees the approach of a small delegation. These strangers are arrested then escorted into camp. They tell our elders they’re representatives here on behalf of the barbarian intruders. They themselves are barely of the Leva kind, but rather they are the orphans and bastards of prior invasions. As such, they roughly speak the common tongues of our region.
Here they sit by our sacred hearth. Their spokesman is a reptilian character with dark skin, and the tattoos of some extinct wild nation. His beard is partial and messy, his teeth are chipped and broken like those of a foreigner, and like those devils, his breath stinks horrid. This snake tells our elders,
‘My name is Shelfanga, born to the Basket Weaver’. He makes the offer of his Leva masters, ‘All that my friends desire is a little land by the river, while the Goshawk wilds are vast. They ask that you permit their cattle to graze unmolested. Then you'll still be free to hunt on upland tracts. I bring to you tokens of their sincerity’.
His companions unpack their tribute of flatbreads, cheeses, the seeds of their grasses, and fired pots. Our elders remain tight lipped and refuse to handle these gifts.
Shelfanga sees they remain unimpressed and makes a further offer, ‘My friends could teach your young folk how to labour and how you can make fat grain grow from gardens. They’d take your daughters, pay dowries and make them their own wives’.
It’s Jamilan who breaks the elders’ silence, ‘You offer a pact between barbarian and savage, so both may prosper side by side?’
A fake smile cracks a scaly face. A forked tongue slithers, ‘Yes, that is the offer. A pact of peace between two folks. Tell your hunters not to harass the Leva’s cattle. The Leva will bring you more tribute. They’ll bring you the beer brewed from their grains’.
‘Our hunters will still be permitted to stalk ample wilds if we maintain this peace?’
‘Yes Elderman. For just a little soil close to the river’.
Jamilan’s voice drops its faked tone of gullibility, ‘Tell us Shelfanga of the Basket Weaver. Were your own folk left free to hunt in their forests in exchange for just a little soil close to the river?’
The treacherous lips of the dark snake report ‘Yes, of course!’
Fatally for Shelfanga and his companions, their eyes betray this to be a lie. This, our wise elders see.
The Ishi of Shurak reaches a resolution. This campsite is too vulnerable and close to the Leva intrusion. The children of Mother Goshawk must strike camp and move to a spot that can be better defended.
One mother named Suetilla suggests, ‘The ashwoods upstream where we gathered with our cousins of the Na’im would offer a safer home. There we could call on cousins and petition for their support against these horrible intruders’. All present agree this would be a wise move.
A strategy of resistance is proposed by Watalão, ‘In comparison to the Leva barbarians, we are few. We can’t engage in more reckless aggression. The life of each of our warriors is too precious. Our warfare will need to be sly. A campaign of bloodshed to encourage them to leave our wilds. They’re keen that we don't harass their cattle and that is what we should do’.
The conference closes. My own people weep as mothers use digging sticks to recover our caches of roasted nuts. Our shelters are not burnt as would be the normal custom of a decampment. Rather they’re left to stand. Hungalla curses these dens with her magic. Their ghosts will bring damaging luck to the invaders.
Old Sharlla jaunts out of the busy camp and out to her ancient wildwoods. She clutches within her aged arms, the charred bones of her beloved Talidan. Sharlla will not retreat to the ashwoods. Instead she'll remain in this beautiful part of her wilderness, where she'll ask wolf-kind to despatch her to the spirit forest,
‘Oh my Love, not much longer. I’m coming to join you in death’.
She sits down beneath a mother oak tree. Its spirit senses her plight. Fungal threads woven throughout the leaf mould broadcast her request. The Mother Oak of Life takes a bow, and sheds a leaf onto the rot of the forest floor as nourishment for future sentience. Sharlla’s wish is granted with little pain. Her own physical remains will be reabsorbed into the wilderness of her birth. New life can be birthed.
The shelters have all been cursed. The caches were retrieved and luggage packed into coracles to be towed upstream by canoes. It’s as the last canoe departs up the small river that the skinned and decapitated bodies of the invaders’ treacherous envoys are floated downstream as a gift to the barbarian camp. The mutilated corpse of a dark snake, its scalped head severed. My brave folk’s defiant response to the Leva’s offer.