The Blood-stained Belt Read online

  Sure enough, there was a fuss when we arrived home. Our fathers were furious and our mothers were both tearful and indignant. However, in spite of being closely interrogated, we stuck to our story about a lost animal. After a lot of huffing and puffing, the fuss subsided and life returned to normal by the next day.

  Unfortunately normality didn’t last long. A Dornite search party found one or more of the bodies, put two and two together, and did manage to follow our tracks to Osicedi. No one knew anything about it until they attacked our town five nights later. The raiders had an easy passage because, although Osicedi was quite close to Dornite territory as the crow flew, like most of Lower Keirine the mountainous country around it protected it from attacks. Guards were only posted in periods of general alarm and as this was a time of relative peace there were no lookouts. Consequently the raiders were able to make their way right into the centre of Osicedi before they were discovered. Even then, the alarm was only raised after they set fire to a house.

  There were only ten or fifteen raiders and they operated in a cohesive group. They knew the layout of Osicedi well – they must have studied it from the hills around the town -- and they moved so quickly that there was no time to rally a force to oppose them. In any case, most people were so concerned about the danger of fire, which leaped from one thatched roof to another, that there was no time to organise any resistance.

  Although there was a lot of damage to property, only three people were killed. An elderly couple burned to death in their beds and the raiders killed one of Sharma’s older brothers. This happened when the men of Sharma’s family spilled out of their house just as the raiding party was approaching. Fatally, as they discovered, people in night attire carrying whatever weapons they were able to find as they scrambled out of bed were no match for fully armed assailants. The band swept through the street ruthlessly, leaving one of Sharma’s brothers dead in the street and his father and two neighbours wounded.

  For three days after the attack, Sharma closeted himself in his room refusing food. He only came out of seclusion to attend the funeral, looking shaken and subdued. As the clods of earth were shoveled into his brother’s grave, Sharma muttered to me in a voice that was thick with anger and shame, ‘It’s like I said the other day.’ He jerked his thumb eastwards and muttered tersely, ‘Like I said, one day we’ll conquer the Dornites.’

  After such a disaster, our escapade with the rustlers couldn’t be concealed any longer. When our fathers had finished raging and slapping us about, we were reprimanded publicly at a town meeting. Even worse, we also had to submit to a cleansing ceremony in the temple where the priest implored Zabrazal to forgive our lack of truthfulness. For me, the ceremony was the worst aspect of the whole sorry affair. I was certain that Zabrazal would have his eye on me from now on. How else could it be when I had to kneel at the altar, the centre of attention for nearly an hour, while the priest and the congregation sang, prayed and chanted? I was weighed down by the ominous feeling that I had leaped near to the top of Zabrazal’s list of those who ought to be watched in future.

  However, it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Underneath the public disapproval, we sensed that a lot of people admired us. Although they didn’t like the consequences of our actions, people told us that there would be a lot less trouble if more people followed our example in dealing with the Dornites. Even old Aggam gave us his grudging approval when he stopped to speak to us in the street a few days later. That was something that we had never had before – and never would again, very likely.

  CHAPTER TWO: KEIRINE HAS A KING

  Sharma and I were about twenty years of age when the struggle against the enemy reached a crisis after the Dornite city-states formed an alliance under a single military command and intensified their pressure on Keirine. The Dornites were using new military tactics based on cavalry and chariots and as success followed success they began to widen the scope of their operations. With its lower hills and east-facing plains, Upper Keirine felt it the most as the raiding forces swept in against towns and villages, rounding up livestock and capturing young men and women. Within a few years, they occupied a sizeable piece of territory that had belonged to Keirine for centuries.

  In the face of this crisis, the people began to demand action to counter the Dornites. From all over, the cry went up for a king to lead Keirine. Finally, bowing to the pressure, the high priest, Izebol, convened an Assembly of the Nation.

  Sharma and I were appointed to accompany the delegation from Osicedi. As rural ignoramuses away from home for the first time, we expected to see dazzling sights in the great world. However, Sininda – holiest place of Keirine, seat of the high priest, site of one of the foremost oracles -- disappointed us. In fact, Sininda was hardly a town at all. It was just a collection of small houses, workshops, stalls, and storerooms. The only impressive thing about Sininda was the temple, which rose up the hillside in three ascending levels and dwarfed everything else in the valley.

  In the temple courtyard Sharma and I squeezed against a pillar and looked around curiously. The place was crowded, noisy, and so pervaded with a pungent haze of incense and sweat that Sharma held his nose while he muttered, ‘What a stink! Don’t they ever wash?’ He looked around disdainfully and then whispered into my ear, ‘It’s this lot from Upper Keirine. They smell the worst.’

  I replied, ‘Some of our group haven’t washed for a few days, either.’

  ‘Maybe -- but they don’t smell as bad as this lot, that’s for sure. Don’t they teach them anything in Upper Keirine?’

  In one corner, a man was standing on a bench, haranguing a crowd about the advantages of having a king for Keirine. He was bellowing that without a king, Keirine would never be able to organise and control its defences. A king, declaimed the speaker, would unify Keirine and would overcome the old tribal divisions which he referred to contemptuously as ‘The greatest bane of Keirine and the greatest boon to our enemies.’

  After a few minutes Sharma muttered sceptically, ‘Nothing I haven’t heard before!' He grunted and observed, 'Ha! What is there to say that’s new? Everyone knows what’s going to happen. Keirine is going to have a king and it’s going to get one within a few days.’

  ‘You think it’s settled?’

  Sharma gave me a wondering look and replied, ‘Izebol isn't a fool. He can see which way the wind is blowing. Things have gone too far for him to turn back now.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Sure, that’s what I reckon. You’ll see!’

  We moved over to the other side of the square where an anti-monarchist was bellowing louder than a market auctioneer, ‘We’re the nation of Keirine, not so? You hear me? We’re the nation of Keirine – not the tribes or the city-states, or whatever. We’ve been a nation since before we came out of the desert. A nation! That’s because we enjoy Zabrazal’s special favour. Zabrazal binds us together as a people. Zabrazal sets us apart from all the other tribes and the peoples. You hear me? Zabrazal is the only leader that Keirine ever has needed and ever will need. Zabrazal doesn’t want a king and we don’t need one.' There was a buzz of agreement from the listeners and someone shouted, ‘Praise be to Zabrazal!’ Another member of the faithful band shouted, ‘No king for Keirine!’

  There were only about twenty-five people in the anti-monarchist crowd, much smaller than the crowd on the other side of the courtyard. Judging by the sizes of the respective groups, the pro-monarchists were so far ahead that they were already out of sight and heading down the home straight.

  Sharma listened with his arms folded and his legs planted apart, snorting so loudly that I gave him a warning dig in his ribs, to which he replied with a withering look. Hearing Sharma’s snorts, members of the anti-monarchy brigade began to look at us suspiciously; in fact, a few of them eyed us with definite hostility. Some of the men had their hands inside their garments. They were probably just scratching fleabites or guarding their money-pouches against pickpockets but, with the looks that we were getting, they co
uld also have been fingering their daggers. I pressed back against the wall trying to be as inconspicuous as possible while Sharma gave a final snort – it sounded about as loud as a horse clearing its nostrils on a winter’s morning -- and moved off, saying over his shoulder, 'What a bunch of losers! I’ve had enough! I'll be at the other side of the square.'

  Listening to the speaker, I thought that old Aggam, the supreme anti-monarchist, would have approved of the sentiments that were being expressed. By coincidence, just then, I thought that I saw Aggam standing nearby partly concealed by a pillar. Thinking I was mistaken – hoping that I was mistaken, in fact -- I looked again. Sure enough, it was Aggam. He gave me a glare of recognition and then returned his attention to the speaker, giving me the opportunity to sneak another look at him. He was more animated than I had ever seen him. In fact, he was even more animated than when he went after one of his pupils with his stick. Aggam caught me looking at him, glared at me with narrowed eyes, turned his thin lips down in disapproval, and then directed his attention back to the speaker. I studied him surreptitiously, not wanting the old fool to think that I had any interest in him. By Zabrazal – he was more of a desiccated old sourpuss than ever! Suddenly, agreeing with some reactionary statement, Aggam punched his stick into the air and let out a holler of appreciation that was so loud that I jumped to one side, thinking that he was coming after me. I recognised the stick only too well. It was the same one that he used in the schoolroom, the stick that he called 'The Corrector'. Feeling uneasy, I sidled to the edge of the crowd, suspecting that even here in public Aggam was capable of laying about my shoulders if he thought that I wasn’t showing enough devotion to the ancient cause of the priestly rulers. However, even while I was moving away from him, I thought happily that this time old Aggam, the scourge of the schoolroom and the terror of our youthful days, would find himself outnumbered, out-argued, and out-maneuvered.

  Two days later the Assembly convened on a grassy slope on the outskirts of Sininda. Standing on a platform high enough to be seen by everyone, Izebol began the proceedings by sacrificing a white goat on an altar. After he declared that the omens were good, he launched straight into berating the People of Keirine in general for being unfaithful to Zabrazal. Raising his priestly rod in both hands, he declaimed, ‘Fools! You want to become like the nations around you, abandoning your god for the false glitter of earthly splendour.’ Although this was greeted with a roar of dissatisfaction from the crowd, Izebol was unmoved. He just folded his arms across his chest and stood his ground, chin lowered, bull-like head thrust forward, glowering at the delegates. When he could be heard again, he cried that a king would turn out to be an oppressor who would tax the nation beyond endurance and would strip it of its resources. Furthermore, cried Izebol, a king would conscript the young men for his army and for his road gangs and would demand that the prettiest young women should serve him as maids and concubines. Rising to a crescendo, Izebol almost spat out his final denunciation when he called out, 'Fools! You are going to choose your own oppressor! Ha!’

  In response, a stocky man of about forty years of age with broad shoulders and strong thighs stood up. His hair, thick and tawny, was unfashionably long and unruly as if he brandished it in the face of convention. He wore a soldier’s jerkin and stood with his legs planted firmly apart like a man who knew how to weather a gale. Izebol looked at him calmly from under glowering brows and called out, ‘You may speak, Jainar.’

  Sharma whispered, ‘That’s Jainar of Orifinre. They say that he might be elected king if the assembly gets to vote.’

  Jainar planted his hands on his hips, looked around calmly and called out, ‘We are well acquainted with the mercies of Zabrazal towards his people and we are grateful for them.’

  Izebol replied dourly, ‘So you should be!’

  Jainar looked around as confidently as if he was in the bosom of his family, raised his eyebrows and replied, ‘We have heard that Zabrazal is angry. But we have not heard his answer to our request.’ There was a buzz of approval.

  Izebol rubbed his chin and looked at Jainar narrowly before he punched a finger at him and announced, ‘Zabrazal has an answer.’

  Jainar replied, ‘We are ready to hear it.’ He sat down amidst a roar of approval and applause from all sides.

  Izebol glared at the delegates and called out, ‘You want Zabrazal’s answer? Good! Now hear the words of your god!’ He raised his rod and declaimed, ‘Zabrazal says that Keirine may have what it wants!’ There was another roar of approval that subsided when Izebol waved the assembly to silence and continued, ‘However, Zabrazal reminds Keirine that it will have to deal with the consequences of its own choice.' He stretched upwards, his imposing head turned skywards, and cried, 'Keirine may have its king if that is what Keirine wants!’ Then he put down the rod, glowered at the delegates and said ominously, ‘May Zabrazal have mercy on Keirine!’

  As expected, the delegates voted for the monarchy by a ratio of about ten to one. When the result was announced, Izebol raised his hands and gave a theatrical cry of exasperation. But he recovered quickly enough – after all, it was a foregone conclusion – and called for the sacred dice.

  Amidst a clamour of dissatisfaction, Jainar rose and protested that the delegates should decide and not the dice. As if oblivious to the tumult of discontent, Izebol waved Jainar aside and cried, ‘If you wanted the assembly to choose, then why did you come to Sininda? Go somewhere else! Don’t ask Izebol, high priest of Zabrazal, to officiate.’ Izebol shook his finger at Jainar, swept his gaze over the assembly, and said with finality, ‘That is what Zabrazal says.’

  Jainar pointed his finger at Izebol, thought better of it, muttered something uncomplimentary, and sat down. Into the hush that followed, Izebol said firmly, ‘Zabrazal has spoken! Let the sacred dice decide.’

  While the assembly settled down, Sharma whispered to me, ‘Jainar has big ambitions but Izebol is too smart for him. He's clipped Jainar's wings.’

  I asked, ‘What has Izebol got against Jainar?’

  Sharma lowered his voice and replied, ‘Jainar is strong-minded. He doesn’t respect the priests.’

  ‘You reckon that the person chosen by lot, whoever he is, will be different?’

  Sharma replied, ‘Of course. The sacred dice reflect the will of Zabrazal, and Zabrazal protects the interests of the priests.’ He winked at me ironically.

  The dice rolled and the priests supervised the process of elimination, tribe by tribe and town by town, until only the family of Dorgile from the region of Orifinre in Upper Keirine remained. Orifinre is in the south-west of Keirine, where the mountains and the highlands give way to the grasslands and meandering rivers of the endless interior. The region has a long tradition of producing entrepreneurs and traders because it not only has easy access to Kitilat and its coastline but also trades with the fertile hinterland across the Great River. However, then as now, the people of Orifinre aren’t just shopkeepers and traders. They like to remind the rest of Keirine that they also have a tradition of producing scholars and priests from their schools and in particular from the celebrated Academy of Philosophy. In fact, up to the time of the Assembly five of the last eight high priests, Izebol included, had come from Orifinre and its academy.

  Wealthier than the other regions of the country, conscious of its sophistication and proud of its higher level of education -- all of these factors encouraged the people of Orifinre to regard themselves as a cut above their fellow Keirineians. Predictably, in return the rest of Keirine accused the people of Orifinre of arrogance. In fact, when the argument really got heated, it was said that over the centuries Orifinrians had intermingled so much with other nations that they were bastards and mongrels and not true Keirineians. The Orifinrians sneered at this jibe, saying that the people of the rest of Keirine were rural bumpkins whose intellects had been addled by isolation and inbreeding.

  Dorgile’s eight sons were eliminated one by one until only Vaxili remained. He was a man of about for
ty years of age with a slender build and a well-formed face that was marred by a scar that ran from under his right eye all the way to under his ear. The scar had contracted the skin around the outer corner of his eye so that Vaxili always seemed to be looking askance at the world. He also limped, dragging his left foot slightly. Soon after Vaxili was crowned, a rumour spread that he got his injuries while fighting heroically against the Dornites. However, there was also a rival story that he was injured as a boy when he fell out of a tree while stealing fruit from a neighbour’s orchard. I never did hear the true story. Perhaps no one really knew.

  At mid-morning on the following day, Vaxili was crowned King of Keirine.

  CHAPTER THREE: A FAVOUR

  About a month later, I was on the road that led southwards from Osicedi towards Upper Keirine. After the recent rains, it was pleasant to sit on the box of the swaying wagon enjoying the rich aromas of the countryside while looking across the swaying backs of the oxen at the pastures and the hills that fringed the valley. Suddenly, someone grasped my arms from behind. I nearly jumped off my seat in shock. Bandits? As I flashed a look over my shoulder, a voice said, 'Keep calm! It's only me.'

  I could have shouted out in relief. Instead I said, 'Damn you, Sharma! You scared me. What are you doing here?'

  Sharma crawled out from amongst the bales and scrambled onto the seat next to me where he dusted himself off, looked around warily, and asked, 'Are we alone?'

  'Except for a team of oxen -- yes, we're alone.’

  Still looking around warily, Sharma said edgily, 'I need your help.'

  'If you wanted a ride, or whatever, you could have asked me straight out! You didn't have to skulk in the back of the wagon like a thief.'

  Sharma hesitated, settled back, and said confidentially, 'I'm in trouble.'

  'What sort of trouble?'

  'I guess you could call it woman trouble.'