The Weavings of Ordus

Ordus sat down heavily, wearily, on the small hillock sprouting tufts of katto grass, jasmine, and thorny looking brushweed. He dropped his helmet on the ground between his legs and laid his head on his crossed arms resting on his knees. With his eyes closed he focused on the immediate silence, no birds melodiously twitting, no insects incessantly chirking, only the faintest din of low moans in the distance reached his ears, subtly piercing the ringing that throbbed there. He could hear his sweat plopping in fat drops from his brow to land on the wide brim of his kattoir helmet. He could hear the slow, sharp inhale of his ragged breaths. He believed, with his eyes closed tightly, if he held his breath, he would be able to hear the sizzle of spilt blood boiling in the sun.

Ordus chose not to close his eyes tightly or hold his breath. The acrid iron stench of blood was already assaulting his nose and he did not want to allow the massacre that sprawled out in front of him to overtake all his senses. Instead, he stared at the ground where he sat. He kept his vision focused on the small space between his feet occupied by his helmet, the tip of his javelin slightly poking into the margin of his vision, and the woven webbing of his shoes, so like the pattern of his helmet. He wiggled his toes in his shoes flexing them against the frizzhaire fur packed into their soles. He tried not to smile, but the relief washing over him was like lightening and he could not stop himself. The smile broke wide and grim across his face as a shiver of reprieve raced down his spine. Spared once again.

Ignoring the smell of blood that swirled around him on the sea-salty breeze, Ordus inhaled deeply. He exhaled slowly and forced himself to breath evenly, pacing the rhythm of his heart. His eyes smarted as the sweat rolled down his face carving clean rivulets in the grime and gore of the morning’s exertions. Had it only been two hours since he ate breakfast? He could not discern the time. Everything slows down when you are engaged in killing. Staring at his shoes, feeling the ache of battle start to spread into his limbs, he recalled his Oona saying something similar to him the first time he could recall sitting beside her at the stream while she worked the katto grass into a malleable substance. What was it she had said? Ordus struggled to focus on the memory, his mind still racing at the speed of combat.

* * *

“When you are doing necessary work, work for the good of the people, time flows differently,” his Oona said. She pressed and squeezed the tightly bound bundle of katto grass under the lazy current of the wide, clear stream they were camped beside. Her smile a clean, even line across her face barely revealing a row of even, white teeth.

“Why is that Oona? How can working change time?”

“Well, Ordus, when you are doing something good, something beneficial, something necessary to help the clan, the joy you feel doing it makes the time pass more quickly.”

“I hate working. Mama says my chores are necessary, but I hate them.”

“That is because you don’t understand why they are necessary,” she replied with a wink and a little nudge to his shoulder.

“I would rather go exploring with Shrewk and Pinnol, or chase the frizzhaires around, I like the sound they make when you chase them.”

“Think of doing chores as helping your mother. You do like to help your mother, don’t you?”

“I like to help her make wissan bread and dimpleberry pie,” Ordus replied with the enthusiasm of a five-year old imagining the sticky, sugary, delight of warm dimpleberry pie. He spoke without taking his eyes off his Oona’s hands as she worked the katto grass bundle in the water. “Time doesn’t seem to be passing very fast right now either,” he added with a slight huff.

His Oona worked at the katto grass without replying. Long minutes seemed to stretch between them as she continued to press, squeeze, and twist the grass stalks. The bundle was small, but the stalks were long, almost as long as he was tall. He knew his Oona needed to be careful with the grass because the tips were so sharp, they could easily pierce skin. Ordus knew this from experience. “Be careful around the katto grass,” his mother would yell from behind him and his friends as they ran out into the fields of the delta. That was not always enough to prevent the seemingly inevitable pricks and scratches the boys would acquire from the innocuous, but lethally sharp, grass.

“If time doesn’t seem to be passing very quickly right now it’s because you’re not doing any work. Grab a bundle of grass and help me get it soaking. Then you can tell me about the passage of time.”

“Oona,” came the whiny reply, “I don’t want to work.”

“It’s not just work, Ordus. What we are doing is helping. Doing this allows us to make shoes, dishes, shields, and other things the clan needs. Everyone does something that helps the clan. Everyone must do what they can to contribute to the clan or none of us will make it. There is too much that needs doing. If we all pitch in, then we can all spend more time having fun and eating dimpleberry pies.”

“Have you always worked the katto grass, Oona?”

“No. When I was younger, your age, I helped shepherd the frizzhaires. When I entered adulthood, I was a hunter and made sure that everyone had plenty to eat. Now I am old, and I cannot chase game through the forests nor carry the heavy carcasses back to camp; so, I work the katto grass.”

“I want to shepherd the frizzhaires,” Ordus said hoping that saying it would somehow make it a real possibility.

“There are enough shepherds, Ordus. Perhaps, when the time comes, you can help with shearing the frizzhaires, but right now I need your help with the katto.”

Sulkily Ordus picked up a bundle of katto grass and plunged it into the water. He watched how his Oona worked the grass bundle and tried to mimic her actions. She began humming an unfamiliar tune and shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye. She was still smiling and, despite himself, Ordus smiled, too. He turned his attention back to her hands. They were gnarled, the knuckles knotty under her brown skin. He could see the power in her fingers as she manipulated the grass stalks forcing them to take on water.

The katto grass was stiff and rigid in his hand. He felt the heaviness of it and struggled to maintain his grip as he pressed and squeezed the grass as hard as he could while trying to keep the current from sweeping it away. He couldn’t help but wonder how his Oona had six bundles already stacked beside her, their soaking complete, and he wondered if he would be able to finish this one bundle he now held.

“Squeeze and twist the bundle until the water softens it some,” his Oona directed. “Just keep working it from the bottom to the top and—”

“And be careful of the tip so I don’t cut myself,” Ordus finished her sentence. “I know, Oona, Mama always reminds me.”

Smiling and humming she went back to work on her bundle. “How do I know when it’s done soaking, Oona?’

“The katto will bend easily in your hands without breaking. That means it is waterlogged, saturated, and it will make it easier to get the sap out without damaging the woody pulp inside.”

“Why don’t we just wash the sap away?”

“We could, but then we couldn’t use it. Tonight, we will sit around the fire, tell stories, and push the water and sap out of the stalks into bowls. The water will evaporate, the sap left behind will be a pliable resin that we can use to waterproof our shoes, clothes, and tents. We mustn’t waste what we take from the world. If we can use the whole plant, or animal, we should.”

“And how does the katto become shoes?”

“After the sap has been removed, we will sit in the stream with the bundles and weave them together into sheets with leather or braids of frizz from the frizzhaires. While they are still wet and pliable, we will cut from them what we need to provide for those that are in need of shoes. The katto will dry and become hard once again and, because of this, when it is interwoven with strips of leather it makes a good material for the soles of shoes—sturdy but flexible. With the braids of frizz we are able to make comfortable and durable tops for the shoes. But the weaving must be done underwater because of the strength of the katto stems. Without the water they are unbendable.”

Ordus looked up and down the stream at the men and women doing the work of waterlogging the katto grass, many of them clan elders and children. There were a few weaving experts among them whose contribution to the clan was weaving, unlike his Oona, and others, who had once performed other tasks. These individuals, his mother somewhere among them, walked up and down the banks of the stream supervising and offering advice and instruction as they went to ensure that the katto was treated correctly. “How much katto do we need, Oona?”

“Enough to provide for those in need, that is always what our work should do, provide enough for those in need.”

* * *

“Ordus, you are needed on the field,” the voice broke his reverie, but he did not immediately turn his attention to the speaker. Instead, he focused on his breathing for a few moments longer. He knew Shrewk, his closest friend, would wait for him to respond. He raised his head from its resting place and surveyed the field before him. He could see the older members of his clan working systematically through the bodies strewn about to identify their own wounded and dispatch the wounded enemies. Children followed in their wake pilfering their dead enemies of valuables that could be useful to the clan or bartered with the Zorse lords of the Sweeping Plains.

“What, Shrewk, am I needed for?”

“Minta captured a wounded Southlander before he could kill himself. He is unlikely to die of his wounds. We thought that you might have questions for him.”

“Aye, I have plenty of questions. None more pressing than why the Southlanders have made landfall on this side of the Great Sea twice in as many cycles of the moon.” Ordus spoke as he stood and collected his things. “Come, Shrewk, let us ask this Southlander if he would care to explain.”

The pair descended the hillside and began making their way across the battlefield. Bodies with jagged holes lay littered about like dolls tossed carelessly aside by children. As they passed a Southlander moaning, a gurgling sound caught deep in their throat, Shrewk paused to press his spear through their ribs, deep into their chest cavity, eliciting a pitiful yowl and a small eruption of blood to spew from their mouth. “We must all do our part, isn’t that right, Ordus?”

“It is a kindness.”

“It’s more than these savages would have done for us if this thing today had gone their way,” Shrewk offered nonchalantly.

“We were fortunate this time.”

“No, my friend,” Shrewk said, “we were prepared. If we were fortunate Pinnol would be here having this conversation with us.”

Knowing his friend was right Ordus did not respond. Instead, he let himself remember his friend who had been slain in the first Southlander raid. Clever Pinnol, his mother used to call him, always pulling pranks and making everyone laugh. He had been dead now only a few weeks and here Ordus was again walking among the wounded and dead. “How many were killed this time?”

“I don’t believe we have lost any. At least no one has proclaimed anyone dead yet. Many are wounded, I am sure, but I do not know how many. The healers are putting up lean-tos to shade the wounded while they tend to them, but the elders and children are not done cleansing the field.”

“Perhaps we should help collect the wounded before we see about Minta’s catch?”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Shrewk replied. “I will go and help in the field, but the council leaders have asked for you specifically to question Minta’s catch.”

“Why have they requested me specifically?”

“Oh, come on, now, don’t be modest. Some people, like your mother, are born to be weavers, others, like my brother, are born to forage, each of us is born to do something that the clan will be able to make use of, but you, you my friend, were born to be a reaver. Everyone has seen you cut through these Southlanders, last time and this, you harvest souls the way Old Vinch harvests dimpleberries.”

“I take no joy from the killing. I wish it were unnecessary,” Ordus stated matter-of-factly.

“No one enjoys killing, the hunters will tell you that. Even the shepherds that kill wolves whilst protecting the frizzhaires will tell you there is no joy in it. But no one is asking if you enjoy the slaughter, we are only pointing out that you were born for it.”

“I did no more and no less than what was needed of me today.”

“That may well be true, and I’m sure your mother will be thankful to hear it, but no one in this clan, or any mountain weaver clan, wields a javelin or sword the way you do. It is a terrifyingly beautiful thing to behold, watching you dance across a battlefield.”

“Enough. I’ll hear no more of this. I wanted to be digging u’ula trees today and instead here we are attending to this bloody mess.”

Shrewk knew enough not to press the issue further and he was relieved when Cala, Minta’s sister, approached with kattoir bowls of water. She passed them each a bowl, offering neither a word, but curtly nodding her head at Shrewk and flashing a quick smile at Ordus. They watched her pick her way back through the bodies as if she were skipping between rocks in a stream oblivious to the dying and dead.

“What is her problem?” Shrewk wondered mildly unable to conceal a hint of desire for the young women sauntering away from them.

“She doesn’t have a problem. She is doing the work expected of her. As a healer it is her responsibility to attend to the aftermath. She doesn’t have time to cavort with the likes of you.”

“Well, not now, anyway, but later, when they are singing my praises around the fire, we’ll see if she feels differently.”

“I doubt she will, especially if they sing about how many of your javelins are stuck in the dirt,” Ordus chuckled as he walked away from his friend leaving him to help cleanse the field as he made his way to the u’ula trees where the healers were erecting their tents. Though they did not need his help, they happily accepted his assistance stretching the tentpoles taut and planting them securely in the soft ground. Standing in the shade of the u’ula trees and the tents, with his back to the bloody scene around him, Ordus was struck by the beauty of the thatched wood lining the tent’s leather shell. Though all their tents were similarly made he fancied he could recognize his mother’s handiwork in the careful layering of the staves.

* * *

“It’s not that I don’t enjoy the digging,” Ordus said cheerfully as he plunged his wooden spade into the dirt wiggling a large clod free and tossing it aside. His father and Oopa exchanged sly glances, smiled knowingly, and carried on with the work of digging the u’ula tree free from the soil.

“Good,” his father said between breaths, “maybe you’d like to do more digging and less talking. This u’ula tree isn’t going to fell itself.”

“I don’t know why we don’t just use axes to chop the tree down,” Ordus replied. His twelve-year-old shoulders were broad and his muscles sinewy, but still the digging was slow going on his part.

“Every adolescent allowed to dig asks the same question,” his Oopa stated, “and every adolescent gets the same answer: the wood is too hard for direct whacks. The axe blade would dull, curl, and break before the u’ula tree splintered. The clan would go broke trading for new axe heads before every harvest season. We have a method, and it works, or, it works if the people do.”

Ordus mulled the answer he was given before venturing a reply. “But we plane the wood easy enough and the plane doesn’t go dull, curl, and break. It’s a sharp blade just like an axe.”

“True enough,” answered his father, “but we peel the bark, soak the tree in water, and then plane it. We don’t just go at it with the blade as soon as the tree hits the turf.”

Ordus thought about the long process ahead of them to make the u’ula trees usable for the clan. Once felled, the trees would have to be stripped of their leaves, nettles, and their nuts collected, then the roots would have to be trimmed away so they could be cured and used in smoking meats, then the bark peeled away in sheets and pressed for their oils. Finally, the log would be rolled into the stream nearby, weighted down and sunk, and left for days to cure in the murky depths. Once the wood was soaked the clan would plane the wood into long, thin, staves as equal in width and length as they could make them. Weavers would take the staves into the water, working together to keep them underwater while they worked, creating huge sheets with the planed wood, often weaving intricate patterns depending on the quality of the cuts and the hue of the wood. That was one of the things about u’ula trees that Ordus loved, each one was a different, vibrant color under its black, oily bark. The other thing Ordus loved about the u’ula trees was the delicious wissan bread his mother would make with ground nuts.

Looking around the grove his father had selected for the harvest Ordus watched seven other teams of people working away at the dirt around the u’ula trees. The groups were a mishmash of adults and adolescents, more or less equally divided between young and old, male and female, and each with the single-minded task of digging their tree free from the soil. It was a task made easier by the fact that u’ula trees spread their roots across the ground like the veins in a hand rather than driving them deep into the soil like the Tall Oaks that grew in the mountains. But when needed Tall Oaks could be felled with an axe. Ordus knew digging the roots free enough from the soil for the trees to fall could take days even with a good-sized group of diggers. He bent to the task preferring the full body labor to the camp tasks he had been assigned when he was a child.

“How many tents can we make with the trees we harvest,” Ordus asked no one in particular while he dug at the black soil.

“Well,” his father ventured, “some of the tents we can repair once the weaving is done, but if we had to make all new tents, I’d say, with these trees, we could probably make ten new tents. If we are lucky enough to be able to repair some instead of abandoning them, maybe five or six new tents and twice that number repaired. Your mother would have a better answer than that, but first she’d need to see the pile of shaved staves.”

“Well, then, why don’t we just live under leather canopies like the Zorse lords do? We make the leather covers for the u’ula thatch anyway, so this just seems like a lot of needless work.”

Without looking up from his spade his Oopa responded, “The winters are harder in the mountains than they are out on the Sweeping Plains. We get more snow and ice; simple leather canopies couldn’t support the weight. You might wake up one morning buried under your collapsed tent, slowly suffocating, hoping yours was the only one that collapsed and everyone else was free to dig you out before you died.”

“So, we harvest the u’ula trees to build the strongest support for the tents without the tents themselves becoming too heavy? Because u’ula wood is so strong?”

“Yes,” answered his father, “and because we depend on the u’ula trees so much: their leaves for stuffing mattresses, their nettles for tea, their nuts for food, their wood for housing, their roots for firewood, their bark for oil, we always plant two trees for each one we harvest. One on the spot we excavate, and one somewhere is the shade circle of that tree. That way there are always enough u’ula trees for us to survive.”

“I thought we buried our dead in the hole of the u’ula trees we dig up?”

“Aye,” his Oopa confirmed, “we bury the ashes of our deceased in the holes we make right alongside the seed for a new tree. It is the strength of their bones that makes the u’ula trees so strong.”

* * *

“Ordus, thank the gods, I am glad to see you’re alive and hale,” the voice rumbled beside him snapping him back into the moment. Cocking his head to the left he saw Old Vinch smiling and dragging an unconscious clan member to the tent. A deep gash across their forehead was spilling blood, matting down their long black hair, obscuring their face. “Don’t mind Veeta,” Old Vinch said, straining against the weight of Veeta as he dragged him into the shade of the lean-to, “he’ll be fine. Of course, he’ll have a helluva headache when he comes to and a nasty scar after that, but he’ll live. His helmet took the brunt of it. Big fella knocked him silly before Shrewk could cut him down.”

“Well, thank the gods for Shrewk,” Ordus volunteered, adding, “and Veeta.”

“I think we ought to be thanking the gods for a lot today, it looks as though we haven’t lost a soul, yet. Though some of these wounds are frightening, we may yet have a soul or two to plant under a u’ula tree by the time we are done harvesting.”

“We? It has been many seasons since you’ve wielded a spade in the shade of a u’ula tree, Old Man,” Ordus jokingly complained as he bent to the task of helping Old Vinch pull Veeta deeper inside the lean-to.

“Well, that may be true, but someone has to collect dimpleberries and I don’t think I have ever heard you complain so loudly about my contributions between bites of dimpleberry pie.”

“No, you haven’t, and as our best dimpleberry gatherer I never will,” Ordus laid a hand affectionately on the shoulder of the older man. Old Vinch had always snuck Ordus and his friends a few handfuls of dimpleberries when they were barely babes stumbling around camp and, later, Old Vinch had no qualms about filching an extra pie or two to share with the young boys before the children were sent off to bed. “Though I am, in all seriousness, surprised to see you helping on the battlefield.”

“Eh, what is an old Shaman like me supposed to do? These young healers have taken over and I doubt there is much left I can teach them about reviving folks half-slaughtered.”

“I believe we both know that statement is false.”

“What? They have taken over. Stick around and watch how they boss Old Vinch around, shooing me away from this and that. It’s all a person can do around here these days just to stay busy and feel useful.”

“Busy and useful. If we were a flag waving society that would be our motto.”

“Flags or not, it’s our motto,” the old man laughingly volunteered, “but if we had a flag, I’d probably be the one expected to tote the damn thing around, so it’s just as good that we don’t.”

“Maybe we should ask the council to approve one? The weavers could make it out of dyed frizz,” Ordus said as they both fell to laughing.

“I’m glad the two of you can find a reason to be so jovial at the moment,” the hard-edged feminine voice broke cold and commandingly over the gay scene.

“Hello, Teeca, why are you so dour?”

“Look around, Ordus, and you tell me what might be cause for consternation.”

“We are well aware of the situation at hand, Teeca,” Old Vinch remarked flashing a steely-eyed glance. “That’s no reason not to rejoice a bit at being alive after the fact.”

“I wonder would Veeta share your enthusiasm were he conscious at the moment?”

“Hard to say,” Old Vinch snapped back, “considering he is, in fact, unconscious, but we’ll be sure to ask him when he comes to.”

“No, Vinch, you’ll have to ask him by yourself. Ordus, come with me, Oen would like to speak with you.”

“Speak with me about questioning Minta’s captured Southlander, yes, I have been told already. I was making my way there but paused to help Old Vinch lug Veeta into the shade.”

“As helpful as that may have been, this is a pressing matter; follow me, now,” the command lingered hot in the air as Ordus stared directly into Teeca’s shimmering hazel eyes. Ordus collected his things, stepped forward, and followed Teeca into the sunlight and beyond the u’ula trees behind the healers’ lean-tos.

Ordus followed Teeca as she wove her way through the disentanglement of the battlefield its aftermath a tapestry of shattered bodies, blood, and death. Ordus found himself admiring the weaving of Teeca’s shield slung across her back. The green-brown of the katto grass woven with the vibrant red of an u’ula tree pockmarked and nicked in places where the shield had done its job. He wondered to whom Teeca owed her life as she had never worked with the underwater weaving teams and materials. Ordus had made his own shield with help from his mother and with every blow that glanced off the shield he said a silent thank you to her for it.

When they arrived at a large tent, its new griszon leather covering shimmering in the sunlight, Oen was waiting for them. “Thank you, Teeca, for bringing Ordus. You may return to your duties.”

“Yes, Oen,” Teeca said dryly, turning on her heel, and moving assuredly back the way they had come.

“Ordus, I have a task for you,” Oen said unceremoniously.

“Yes, Oen, I have been told, you need me to question a Southlander.”

“No. The Southlander is of no use to us. He is a rank-and-file brute. I doubt he knew he was landing on our shores until he got here. We will try to coerce information from him, but ultimately his fate is to die here with his mates. No, I summoned you for a more dangerous task.”

“More dangerous than leading the spear charge against our enemies,” Ordus laughed at the thought, but it was a mirthless laugh.

“Yes, Ordus, I fear it will be considerably more dangerous and will take you some time to complete. I thought you might enlist Shrewk to assist you though, honestly, the thought of our two best warriors being gone at the same time troubles me, especially in light of these recent attacks.”

Ordus perked up at this sensing something was amiss. He looked around him for the first time and noticed that the Southlander was not the only person in the tent. Next to the bound and bleeding Southlander, unbound save for large leather collars around their necks, were four bedraggled individuals, also bloodied, wearing rags. “Who are they? Why are they not bound?” Ordus demanded to know though he knew he had no authority to make such demands. “You put yourself at risk!”

“No, no, I do not. These four are from a weaving clan. You can see it in their fingers and, if you look closely enough, you can see it in their clothes as well.”

“Weavers,” Ordus said, astonished.

“Yes,” Oen paused allowing Ordus to grasp the revelation, “the Southlanders were using them as shields for their archers.”

“You can’t be serious,” Ordus exclaimed.

“There are two score more on the battlefield, intermixed with a few Zorsemen, and Islanders, all still tethered to their archers.”

“Who would use people as shields?”

“A fair question. I don’t need to stress this to you, I hope, but also a question of the utmost importance. This is not simple slavery we are dealing with. This is something far worse.”

“Have they told you who is responsible for this?”

“They have not, cannot, in fact, their tongues have been removed.”

Ordus stared at Oen dumbstruck. “Why would someone do such a thing? To prevent them from communicating during an attack?”

“I suspect that is only part of it, Ordus. Weaver culture is an oral culture. Our histories and collective knowledge are built with the spoken word and transmitted through stories. Very few Weavers have ever become literate like the peoples to our west and east. So, removing the tongue removes a person from their culture. It demoralizes and subdues and, certainly, prevents coordination between the captives, rendering an individual functionally isolated even in a group.”

“What do you need of me,” Ordus asked intently.

“I want you to travel the Crown and seek out the other Weaver clans. The mountains are a dangerous place and not all the Weaver clans are on peaceable terms. Though we strive to be peaceful other clans will be hostile. However, we must know where these people come from, how they came to be here under these circumstances, who might be responsible. Two attacks from Southlanders so close together are unusual but not out of the ordinary. The use of human shields is…quite out of character even for Southlanders.”

“I’ll leave at once,” Ordus said.

“No,” Oen cautioned, “you and Shrewk will leave in the morning. There is much to be done before you leave, and we still need both of you here. Not knowing how long this task will take leaves me unsettled, but I feel there is no other way, something awful is taking place and someone is responsible for it. We must know who, so we know what to expect and how to best defend ourselves.”

“What of the harvest?”

“We will have to cut the harvest season short this year. I suspect by the time you make it back we will once again be ensconced in our stronghold in the Crown. Look for us there when you return. For now, go and assist the others.”