He prowled around behind Cerren swathed in the smoke of the incense. In his left hand he brandished a stick over which was threaded many closely packed shells secured with twine that rattled as
he shook them. In his right hand was a thicker wooden cudgel with a bulbous metal head formed roughly into the shape of a skull. Cerren himself was flanked by two burly villagers, one at each side,
both of them staring across the lake.
Dumnekavax addressed the crowd:
‘People of the Black Lake, omens and portents have been seen that show us how the Gods have been displeased and now we have been told how Ventekuu has awoken and is free in our world.
Although we have food aplenty and the harvest was good, it will be just a matter of time before this changes for the worst.
‘We have been told that none of this has been of our making, but even so we are threatened with destruction, for the night devils prowl. Therefore Ukka is to be sent an emissary to plead
our case. Cerrenatukavenex is to be that man.’
‘Cerrenatukavenex!’ shouted the men, slamming the butts of their spears into the ground. Some of them were passing round jugs of mead, which the men and women seemed to be drinking
in equal measure. This had been going on for some hours and many people there were definitely the worse for wear.
There was a pause as the musicians struck up their instruments; the air was filled with the trilling of pipes and the heavy beat of goatskin drums. The younger girls, who wore the garlands,
started to dance on the earth before the wooden platform, skipping playfully around a man whose entire face was charcoaled and was shrouded in a dark-green robe – the representation of Ukka.
They twirled about him, bowing their heads as they passed his face. They wore skirts only, their heads, breasts and torsos dusted with a blue paint that represented the waters of the underworld in
which Ukka resided. As the dance continued, they formed a circle around their god, drawing closer and closer to him until they were totally surrounding him – a sea of flailing arms and
swishing hair – then, as one, they raised their arms to the heavens before collapsing to the ground around the man, breathless.
The musicians continued playing as the dancers returned to the crowd and were given mead as a reward for their efforts. Shaking his shell rattle, Dumnekavax drew the crowd’s attention.
‘It is time, O brothers and sisters, to honour our emissary. His name will be carved on to the tablet of honour in the great house, joining that of former emissaries. The last was
Manaketenak, who spoke to the Gods during the invasion of the Sand Warriors, granting us victory against a terrible foe. Let us honour the emissary.’
‘Honour the emissary!’ There was something of a party atmosphere in the crowd. All were fearing attacks from an enemy out of legend and this was the way they were to be stopped. For
that they had to be grateful indeed. Cerren himself, although facing the lake, raised his arms to acknowledge them. The crowd roared its response, clashing spear to shield, chanting and whooping.
Cerren’s parents were there, too, and they joined in with the raucous cacophony. It was a proud day for them.
Once the noise had died down, Dumnekavax raised his arms.
‘And now at last it is time. Ukka has commanded and it is our place to respond. I hereby commend Cerrenatukavenex to you, O Ukka. He is our emissary, and he will plead the case for our
tribe. Hear him and be merciful in your response!’
He was now standing directly behind Cerren. After uttering his final exhortation to the god of the underworld he turned towards the lake, lifted the stout cudgel he still brandished in his right
hand, and with all his strength brought it down squarely on the back of Cerren’s head.
It was such a fierce blow that many in the front rank of the crowd saw the man’s head partially cave in. The crowd roared in excitement, and the musicians played frantically as Cerren
staggered drunkenly across the platform. The two men flanking him had him though; grabbing his shoulders, they forced him to his knees. More mead was passed around as the onlookers’
anticipation grew.
Dumnekavax stood before them, his arms raised. He had set down the cudgel and stick and held up to them a stretch of rope, knotted in three places with a wooden handle affixed to each side.
Spears were raised as this was seen. The women were singing softly.
As the men held him, Dumnekavax passed the rope over Cerren’s neck, and locking the wooden handles together he proceeded to turn them, twisting the rope and so tightening its grip around
Cerren’s throat. Not even the musicians, the singing or the other noises of the crowd could hide the strangulated gurgling coming from their emissary. This went on for some time; many of the
audience were standing on their toes, leaning forward for a better view, when Dumnekavax signalled his two assistants. They then, with difficulty, stood Cerren up and turned him to the crowd.
His face was bright red, his wild eyes were popping out from their sockets, the whites prominent. The crowd dismissed any notion that there might be terror in them; spittle ran down his chin,
along with blood from where he had bitten his swollen tongue, which was now partially lolling out of his mouth. All the time the music and singing continued.
With great ceremony Dumnekavax showed the crowd the final instrument he would use – a long thin knife. It was a metal one, a thing of wonder in itself in these parts, with a delicately
carved bone handle. As the crowd watched open-mouthed, he skilfully and swiftly drew the blade across Cerren’s throat.
The results were spectacular. A fountain of arterial blood shot from the man’s neck, spattering the front row of the crowd. The cheering grew to near-hysterical proportions as the wooden
platform became covered in the gore from the man for whom life was now a very tremulous flame indeed. Finally he slumped to his knees, at last on his way to the underworld. As the music played and
the happy blood-soaked crowd laughed, drank and danced, Cerrenatukavenex was carried by the two men to the edge of the platform where his body was placed gently into the water. His woollen clothes,
weighed down by stones sewn into the fabric, ensured that slowly and inexorably he was carried down into the murky unfathomable depths. For a moment he hung there, one white hand breaching the
surface. Then his body drifted down into the underworld, to the sound of the party carrying on beside the shore.
On returning to the village, Cygan sought out the Elder. He, as expected, was at the great house speaking to the Circle of the Wise. On seeing Cygan, though, he excused himself to them and came
towards him.
‘Cygan! I wanted to see you. What did you think? I thought it went very well. The young man is strong and brave; Ukka cannot fail to be impressed.’ His face, beard and clothes were
still heavily spattered by the man’s blood. Washing it off was not the done thing as a little of Cerren’s power had been passed to him that way.
‘Yes, it did; Cerren’s parents could not be happier for their son. First a Malaac slayer and now an emissary – the musicians should be composing a song in his honour as we
speak.’ In truth, alone among his people, Cygan had his doubts. His contact with the outside world had coloured his perceptions of the supernatural. The Taneren he had spoken with had their
own gods and who was to say who was right? He hoped that poor Cerren had not died in vain.
‘And now,’ said the Elder, ‘to your departure – when are you planning to leave?’
‘Within the hour, if at all possible, although I am unsure as to exactly what I should be doing.’
‘Let us talk about this. None of us here know much about the lands to the north or of what lies over the open sea. What you need to do is to find the nearest elder of their people and warn
him about what is happening here and that if things are not stopped the trouble will spread into their lands. He must know someone who can point to the cause of the spread of the Malaac and the
rise of Ventekuu.’
Cygan looked unconvinced. ‘The lands beyond the marsh are vast, far beyond anything you or I can imagine. The chances of me finding the people responsible for causing this chaos are too
small for reckoning.’
Dumnekavax looked grave. ‘Nevertheless, it is something you have to attempt. The very survival of our people is at stake. Do you wish to take anybody with you?’
‘No,’ sighed Cygan, ‘everyone is needed here to defend the village. Give me a month or so; if you hear nothing, by all means send someone after me.’
‘Of course. One other thing, if leverage is required, we will give you some items that may be traded. The marsh plants that the northerners crave – spore fungus, blackroot, wet cap
and spirit grass, slime moulds and white allium.’
‘If they take all of that, they will be in the spirit world for the rest of their lives – which wouldn’t be that long of course,’ said Cygan with a laugh.
‘You will take all our stock. Tell no one there about it until you have to, otherwise they will kill you and take it all for themselves. All of these ingredients have great worth in the
lands of the north – for healing, killing or walking with the spirits. With that you should be able to access the important people of the north.’
‘Very well, Elder, I will do this for our people. Tell me, how is Tegavenek?’
‘He is still sick, the poison in the Malaac’s bite is still in his blood. It will take him a long time to heal, as he is very weak. We have tried everything we can think of, but the
effect has been limited. We will continue to do what we can.’
‘Then keep at least some of the healing herbs. Do not give them all to me; I will need but a little.’
‘As you wish. May Cygannan go with you on your journey; all our prayers will be with you.’
Cygan left the great house under a lowering sky. He steered his boat between groups of geese and ducks, bobbing on the water as they fed on clumps of weed brought into the lake
by the river. On the bank he could hear the villagers still drinking and celebrating. The mood of the people had lifted considerably since the events of earlier that day. Surely the Gods were with
them now. People were even stripping off their clothes and diving into the water for a swim, something common in the summer months but which had stopped since the rumours of the night devils had
arrived here. Arriving back at his island, he walked into his house, now outside the defensive circle of stakes and stripped of what few possessions it had; they had been taken into the heart of
the island where the villagers now spent each night. The cooking pot was there, though, and his wife and children and his lame brother Uxevallak were all sitting on the floor eating a fish stew out
of bowls. Cygan helped himself to a bowl. It was quite delicious. He spoke to his brother.
‘You will take care of everyone here while I am gone? I do not know how long I will be.’
‘Of course, brother. Not even the night devils will stop me inspecting the fish traps every day and keeping everyone fed.’
‘Just be careful. The waters may be treacherous; nowhere is safe here now.’
‘It is you who needs to be careful,’ his wife said. ‘Will I ever see you again?’
He kissed her. ‘Just pray for me. I do not know how things will go for me when I leave the marsh, but it will be my thoughts of you and the children that will sustain me at all times. The
thought of never seeing the three of you again will be too much for me to bear. I will come back; I feel it is my destiny to return, no matter what.’
His meal finished he crouched down and called the children to him.
‘I will call you Deravellak, the strong heart,’ he said to the boy. ‘You will be as wise as the Elder and as strong as Fasneterax the warrior, and you’ – he held
his daughter close – ‘will be Atanananda, the gentle reed, standing supple and proud and never breaking even in the heaviest of storms. I see your mother in you already and that is no
bad thing; she is both the strongest and the gentlest person I will ever know. You all make me very proud.’
He kissed all three of them and embraced his brother heartily. Vaneshanda cried briefly but only briefly. After this she wiped her eyes and smiled at him.
‘You are the bravest and kindest of men. When you return we will increase the size of our family, for I know our tribe will be safe in your hands and the future is assured. Cygannan keep
you, my husband; all our prayers go with you.’
Shortly afterwards the elders arrived, bringing with them a securely tied basket in which was held the various items that Dumnekavax had mentioned earlier. Cygan stored it safely in his round
boat, along with his knife, bow, spear, fish hooks and strips of dried fish and berries, as well as his cloak and water skin. He looked back at his house where his wife stood watching him. Raising
his arm in farewell, he pushed his boat into the water and clambered into it. The sun was beginning to descend into the western sky, casting his wife into silhouette. Both his children were at her
feet. As he started to paddle, they waved to him. He swallowed and forced himself to turn away, steering the boat across the lake and on to the river. As he got to its mouth, the sun flared,
turning the waters ahead scarlet. A flock of swift-flying swallows swooped low over the river, chirruping and arguing with each other as they helped themselves to the swarms of insects hanging over
the water. As their black forms diminished over the riverbank, he saw a fish break the glassy surface to feed, leaving concentric rings spreading over the water. He took one last look behind him.
Many boats were arriving at the island where they were to spend another night of vigilance, secure behind the newly built stockade. He saw his house, insignificant and small in the distance, and
fancied he still saw a small figure standing next to it still watching him as he faded into the distance. One more sweep of his paddle and the riverbank hid the village from view. He looked ahead
where the river seemed never to end, and with a sigh – maybe of regret, maybe in anticipation of what was to come – he spurred his boat onwards. He wanted to cover a good few miles
indeed before night descended on the marsh.