The Painter of the Gods

There is something about the village all abuzz with excitement that I find exhilarating, even if I am not directly involved. The crowd of men and maidens press against me as I struggle forward. For a moment, there is a break in the crowd and I half notice a movement from the corner of my eye. My hand, almost involuntarily, jerks upward and snatches a small stone from the very air and, in one fluid movement, launches it back to where it originated, smacking hard against my brother’s head. Anger contorts his face as he grips his ear, blood already trickling down his neck. Stealing myself for the expected assault, I relax as his friends start laughing. He joins in, still gripping his ear and sending me a sideways glance that lets me know that this isn’t over.

And such is our relationship. He is the oldest of my five brothers and they all treat me as sport, never passing up an opportunity to cause me some harm or indignity. They are all brawnier than I am, much taller and stronger. It isn’t our ages; it is our nature. Fedelmid, my sister and I am of a much slighter build and they are forever comparing the two of us for it. Where they are bulky and strong and enjoy a good roughhouse, I would much rather sit quietly alone or mix my colors for painting. Fortunately for me, my reflexes are much faster and my aim much truer and all too often this has saved me from an otherwise brutal hazing from them.

The men are heading to the Chieftain’s hut, gathering for a hunt. I am old enough to join in but it is abundantly clear that, not only is my size ill suited for the hunt, but the Chieftain and others would not trust me to participate. Mind you, I am a great hunter, able to kill a bird in flight or a small animal with just a throwing stone, but I am of little use with larger prey.

As they gather, I head to see our Bandorai, Saibah. Where the Chieftain thinks me and my paintings of no use, Saibah tells me my paints are gifts from the gods and that I will play a larger role in our clan than anyone (except the gods) can possibly foresee. For my part, I am thankful just to have someone who enjoys the colors as much as I.

Approaching her hut, I untie two rabbits from my belt and lay them upon the ground. I step back and drop to my knees and place my palms and face against the ground. Camma, the attending one, emerges, examines the offering, examines me and reenters the hut. A moment later she comes forth and beacons me enter.

Inside the hut is heady with incense and offerings. My heads spins as it tries to acclimate to the fumes and the faint light. Saibah offers me a thick paste of berries and herbs. Refusing such a thing is unheard of and, bowing my head, I take the dish, and scoop the food into my mouth. My heart races a little and my head swims. Saibah talks of the winds, the rains and all the creatures, known and unknown, and of days yet to come. She relays messages from several gods, meant only for my ears. I can almost hear them speaking.

Finally, she hands me several small bags filled with powder; the ash, verdigris, ochre and the woad and more, which I tie to my belt and my tunic, and a blade of obsidian, small by incredibly sharp. She points northeast and tells me that this is the direction I must travel. Today, I will show my Chieftain that the colors are for more than just war and the hunt.

I rise to my feet before my head is ready. Camma anticipates my need and grabs my arm in such a way as to preserve my dignity. I cross my arms over my chest and bow deeply to Saibah, my Bandorai, my goddess made manifest on earth, and I take my leave.

My village sits on a mound overlooking the great Dogger Littoral. To the north and east lay the borderlands, a mountain range that separates us from great ice fields and the land of giants. It is there that I must travel. Great fields of grasses stretch before me, swaying and dancing in the summer winds. The gods, I imagine are dancing there as well. A great peace washes over me.

The grasses reach over my head. An army could stand four arm’s lengths away and, if they were quiet, I would never know they were there. I have never travelled so far on my own and I have to keep reminding myself of what my exalted father said about navigating by the sun and stars.

It takes me three days and nights to reach the next height of land, a small hill preceding the mountains. The trip, thus far, has been uneventful. I have slept on a nest of grasses upon the ground and have eaten rabbit to my fill each day. Water is plentiful, with many streams and pools along the way.

I sit upon the hill and stare for a long while at the looming cliffs and mountains. Our hunting parties have told many tales of travelling this far but never any farther. These mountains are known for great magic but no one knows if it be good or evil. No one knows what dangers may skulk there. I feel no fear within myself, however. The gods have blessed my travel and my intent and will protect me until the end.

I have to admit the land ahead now looks foreboding. It is swampy with brackish waters which emit a foul smell. The cesspool of the giants, I imagine.

Much time is spent navigating around and through muck and entangled vegetation but I finally arrive at the base of the great cliffs. I study the rock face, looking for which I seek, while keeping a keen eye for giants and other evil machinations of fallen gods.

Part way up the cliff face, to my right is what I seek; a cave opening. I scale the short distance upwards. The cave opens from a small ledge, large enough for me to work. I find a flat stone and take one of my pouches of dust and some water from my bladder and mix my first color. With a stick I had beaten until the end was splintered, I apply the paint to the cliff face. Many silhouettes facing a great leader, my leader. The radiance of the gods shining from his head and a river of color, a river of life from his heart. Over the next two days and nights I cover the cave walls with the story of my people and my Chieftain as it has been told to me by my beloved Bandorai.

When at last I emerge from the cave, blinded by the brilliance of the rising sun, I place the final homage to my gods; an alabaster bowl which I fill with spring water brought to the mountain in a separate bladder and blessed by Saibah.

I sit for a while on the ledge overlooking the shallow valley. I reflect on the great story I have told, doing my best to honor my people and the gods. My Anam is at peace and I fear nothing the future may hold.

I lower myself down from the cliff and navigate back across the bogs and swamps, repulsed by the brackish odors. I am thirsty but dare not drink from these foul pools. Just as I start back up the hillside, I hear a sound that panics me. A bellow that echoes through the valley. The giants have seen what I have done to their mountain and are calling for retribution. I fear my days are now drawing to a close as I scurry along, the monstrous howling closing in around me.

I lay low in the grasses on the hillside. The noise seems to be coming from all directions and I cannot get a bearing on it. Suddenly I see mud and dirt erupt into the air. And again. The rage is coming from this one spot, that ground upon which I will certainly meet my gods.

I remember why I have am on this journey and I close my eyes and feel the solace within. I draw my shoulders back and open my eyes and stand tall, my eyes peering over the top of the grass. I spot the beast at the same moment he spies me. It is no god. It is worse. It is a Steppe Bison, almost twice my height and weighing as much as twenty men. He is bloody with many spears and daggers sticking from his body. A man’s ribcage and shoulder blade is stuck upon his right horn and part of a tunic on the other. He was kicking up mud and dirt and grasses until our eyes locked. Now he is taking my measure.

I have palmed a stone from my bag and then I realize how unwise that would be to throw it. I turn and run. I have several dozen paces head start, a distance he quickly closes. I dive behind a hassock and scurry behind another. He bears down on the first and rips it from the ground, hurling it high into the air. He catches it on the way down and shakes it to powder and then stomps the ground where the dust settled. He snorts and looks around. Again, he takes my measure and I narrowly avoid being gored.

It is only a matter of time before I lose this game. I must be smarter if I am to live through this day. I pat myself down. What have I to fight with? A few throwing stones and, and my powders! This might work! While he is ravaging another hassock, I dump my remaining colors onto the leaves of two water lilies. I use the stem to bind them and take one in each hand.

I look to see where he is. Too close. He is too close and he sees me. He charges, head low to the ground and roaring and growling. I hurl one paint ball into his eyes and throw myself to the ground. The bull roars and grinds his head into the ground. . Aiming, I throw the other ball into the other side of his face. He is insane with pain and blindness. Madly he grinds his face and bucks around in circles.

Seeing my chance, I run towards the brackish water. I turn and face the bull. He is blind and cannot see me, but he can hear me. I shout as I pick a throwing stone from my bag. The rock strikes him on his snout. He lowers his head, trying to determine where I am. I yell again and strike him with another stone. This time he charges and I roll out of the way. He splashes into the water and mud. He is stuck and helpless! I jump upon his back, gripping the small obsidian blade and I slice into his throat, the blood runs into the water, thick and dark. Beneath me I feel the life leave his body. He is at peace.

As I climb from atop his back, I glance up the hill. My brothers and what is left of their hunting party line the peak. They have watched this unfold, perhaps thinking this is my greatest moment, and their idea of me changes.

Tomorrow I will return to the mountain with them and share with them what is truly my greatest moment and they will see that the gods have been with me all along.