CHAPTER 25: THE GODS

In the next few days, droves of finawu arrived, shuffling up the mountain in their long red robes. They apologized profusely for taking so long, but they had had to travel a long way. The Ryuhon religion practiced by the great houses of Shirojima was an ancient form of Falleya distinct from the Nagino Falleya practiced in most of Kaigen. Takayubi’s temple had been one of the last true strongholds of the religion.

The pyre where Mamoru, Dai, and hundreds of others had burned to ash had been covered with soil and packed down in a neat circle. Colonel Song had forbidden anything that might mark the site as a grave, but the finawu gathered around it in reference and spent days singing their prayers as the villagers and volunteers took it in turn to join them.

Misaki visited the grave herself on the second day with her sons, a white cloth tied into her hair. Traditional mourning outfits were entirely white, but few of Takayubi’s residents had even one change of clothes, let alone a full set of proper mourning attire. Instead, they improvised, wrapping strips of white cloth around their waists or tying them into their hair.

Ironically, their visit fell on the New Year, usually a time for bright decorations, colorful sweets, and hopes for the future. But the New Year was also an important time to drive away bad spirits, so Misaki considered it as good a day as any to bring her family to pray.

The Matsudas went through the rituals, songs, and recited prayers for Mamoru, though Misaki politely declined the masked spirits’ offer to act as intermediary in conversation with her son.

“I spoke to his spirit at length, Fina-sama,” she explained with a low bow to the senior monk, “as did his little brothers, shortly after his death. There is nothing more we can offer him.”

“And the boy’s father?” the bald man asked in a voice wobbly with age. “He has also prayed already?”

“I... I don’t know, Fina-sama.” It didn’t make Misaki sound like a very good wife, but it wasn’t smart to lie to a Ryuhon high monk. “He has been keeping to himself since the storm.”

“Mmm. Meditating, I heard?”

“Yes, Fina-sama.”

“He will join you here then?”

“Ano...” Misaki licked her lips. “I don’t think he was planning on it, Fina-sama.” She hadn’t spoken to Takeru since she had found him meditating near Takayubi’s summit.

“Hmm.” The wrinkles on the man’s face arranged themselves into what Misaki took to be a frown. “This is not good, young Matsuda. A man and his wife should be together after the loss of the child. The boy, when he lived, was of both of you. You hope to keep his spirit from being torn in two pieces, yet you do not come here together.”

“I’m sorry, Fina-sama. I will try to talk to my husband, and bring him here tomorrow.”

“No, child,” the fina said with a slow wave of his withered hand. “This thing, if it is forced, will do your son’s spirit no good. Your husband must come here for himself, because he wishes it.”

Misaki nodded, secretly relieved that she would not have to attempt that conversation with Takeru. “If I could, I would like to speak to a mask for my brother-in-law, Matsuda Takashi.”

She needed to see if she could forgive him for his last orders.

When her prayers were done, Misaki gathered her children and prepared to head back up the mountain with the Kotetsus, who had shown up to pray at the same time. Kwang Chul-hee was with them, mainly to serve as Kotetsu Katashi’s crutch, while Atsushi corralled the younger children. Kotetsu was in the process of designing himself a chair that he could easily move around with his jiya, but while he lacked the supplies to finish it, he still relied on Atsushi and others to help him move around. With the master swordsmith relatively immobile, the numu family had only just gotten the chance to pray over the resting place of those they had lost.

Throughout the rituals, Chul-hee had waited on the fringes of the circle. His purpose was only to make sure that he was there to help Kotetsu back up the mountain when he needed it, but the inquisitive boy had quickly become fascinated by the proceedings. He seemed grateful when Kotetsu opted to rest for a while on a bench of ice before tackling the steep path up to the main village—now the only habitable place on the mountain.

“I don’t understand,” the northern boy murmured, staring at the chanting monks in their blood-red robes. “Why the special finawu?”

“Monks who practice the Imperial standard Nagino Falleya would not be able to administer the proper rites,” Misaki said.

“There’s a difference?”

Misaki, Kotetsu, and even Atsushi laughed at the question.

“What?”

“Ryuhon Falleya is very different from the religion you know, boy,” Kotetsu said.

“How so, Numuba?” Chul-hee asked.

“Numuba.” Kotetsu chuckled again at the title. “You’ll notice we don’t use those fancy Yammanka addresses the rest of the world is so fond of?”

“Yeah.” Chul-hee looked self-conscious. “I thought it was a dialect thing.”

“It is indeed ‘a dialect thing,’” Kotetsu said, “because we Shirojima Dialect speakers do not put much stock in the Yammanka version of the world’s origin and its order.”

“But... Yamma is the place of First Planting,” Chul-hee said in confusion.

“If you believe that,” Kotetsu said.

“How can you not believe that, Numu Kotetsu? You still worship Nagi and Nami, like the rest of us, don’t you?”

“And what are Nagi and Nami to you, Nagino Falleka?” Kotetsu asked.

“They’re children of the mangrove seeds planted by the Falleke—Kiye, God of Soul and Fire and Nyaare, Goddess of Flesh and Substance,” Chul-hee recited what was obviously a deeply ingrained story from many repetitions in school. His voice even took on the vaguely musical lilt of the Falleya myths imported from Yamma.

“The mangrove was the sixthborn seed of human ancestors, after Kri and Sura of the first baobab seed, Bemba and Sibi of the second baobab seed, Nege and Joya of the first acacia seed, Nyanga and Chaka of the second acacia seed and Sayandana, the Death Bringer, of the sycamore seed.”

“Sixthborn, hmm?” Kotetsu said, looking faintly amused.

“Yes. Their pods didn’t split open until after Kiye and Nyaare sent fire to purge the land of the Death Bringer’s evil. Bemba shielded them from the fire with his body until Kri tamed the flames and became the first tajaka. Then, when Sura’s song summoned the rains that flooded the world, they broke out of their seeds and took the form of giant fish so they could bear their seed siblings above the water. After saving the other human ancestors from drowning, they lay down and swam east with the receding water, carving Yamma’s Great Twin Rivers into the land.”

Recounting the story seemed to give Chul-hee comfort as he stared into the chanting mass of strange finawu. “They continued swimming beyond the edge of Kelendugu, pulling with them the water that became the world’s oceans. They didn’t stop until they came here and raised Kaigen from the waters. Then they created the first Kaigenese people from seafoam—Why are you laughing?”

“Nagi and Nami are gods of the ocean,” Kotetsu said.

“Yeah,” Chul-hee said.

“And we are to believe that they are the mere children of deities of earth and fire?”

“Well... I...”

“This conceit that all the races of humans came from seeds is ridiculous to us,” Kotetsu said. “It is an irrefutable truth that all life came from the ocean. Thus, it stands to reason that the original gods are those of the ocean. Nagi and Nami were not children of any Yammanka gods. Nami and Nagi are God and Goddess supreme, parents to us all.”

“Wait—you deny the existence of Kiye and Nyaare?” Chul-hee looked utterly scandalized. “That’s what Ryuhon Falleka is?”

“Oh, no,” Kotetsu said earnestly. “None of these monks would go so far as to say that the Kiye and Nyaare you all worship do not exist. We accept that the version of events in Yamma did unfold more or less the way it is told in the Donkili; the Yammankalu simply misinterpreted it.”

“They what?”

“Nagi and Nami weren’t children of Kiye and Nyaare. They were the originators themselves, just reborn in a different form.”

“So, it’s basically... you think the mother and father of everything were the gods of the ocean, not gods of earth and fire?” Chul-hee said slowly. “I guess that’s not the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Singing sky heralds, tamers of wild brushfire; these things all sound nice in songs—and perhaps they did exist at some point, but these were not the first beings on Planet Duna. Before anything else—plants, humans, and other creatures—there was the endless water. The ocean is the ultimate source of power and life. It has been obvious to us here in Shirojima since long before the fossil record started to prove us right.”

The appeal to scientific evidence seemed to give Chul-hee pause. “But... the fossil record also suggests that modern humans originated in Yamma and then migrated across the rest of the world like the songs say.”

“I suppose that would be relevant,” Kotetsu shrugged, “if our power had its origins in human life.”

“I... wh-what?”

“Another essential part of Ryuhon Falleya is the knowledge that we are the blood of gods. Nagi and Nami didn’t just whip humans up out of seafoam. They made life from water long before that, beginning with the simple, wriggling creatures of prehistory. Some of these early creatures were made of pieces of the originators themselves—children of gods, who then went on to have innumerable generations of their own children, who all bore some sliver of the originators’ power.

“That gods’ blood still flows through the greatest of the ocean creatures—the giant sharks, squid, and long forgotten monsters who live in the deep. Perhaps the descendants of Nagi and Nami first took human form in Yamma, among other lesser humans. It is not important. Many humans may have different kinds of power now, but it is only the direct descendants of Nagi and Nami who wield the truest power of the ocean.

“This is why we in Shirojima are such devoted practitioners of Ryuhon Falleya and why we guard our bloodlines so carefully. We guard the blood of gods.”

Chul-hee looked skeptical but faintly awed. If nothing else, the sheer audacity of the swordsmith’s words had him impressed. “So, Ryuhon Fallekalu really believe that the Matsudas and these other jijaka families are directly descended from the gods of the ocean?” He looked from Kotetsu to Misaki.

“More or less,” Misaki said with a smile. “Some bloodlines are purer than others. The Matsuda bloodline is famously the purest throughout history, followed closely by the Yukino and Ginkawa lines. Then there are the families regarded as having a lesser but significant amount of gods’ blood, including Kotetsu, Ishino, Ameno, Katakouri, and Tsusano.” She lay a hand on her own chest. “There are some branches of the Mizumaki family, like the one here in Takayubi, who are thought to have gods’ blood in them while others are just regular jijakalu.”

“You’re talking about this like it’s a measurable thing, Matsuda-dono,” Chul-hee said incredulously.

“Well,” Misaki returned, jouncing Izumo on her knees, “your Nagino Falleya mythology presumes to count the ancestors of all humanity on ten fingers.”

“Sixteen, Matsuda-dono,” he said indignantly. “There are sixteen human ancestors.”

“Oh, right. I apologize. It’s been a while since I brushed up on my heresies.”

Chul-hee looked as if she’d slapped him. “Well, now I know where Mamoru got his—” He stopped short with a look of consternation. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, go on.” Misaki smirked, feeling strangely delighted by this small diversion Chul-hee was providing. “Where Mamoru got his what?”

“With respect for his spirit, Matsuda-dono... his attitude,” Chul-hee said. “Anyway, the sixteen ancestors are a metaphor. Everyone knows there probably weren’t just eight married pairs of people, all at the same time. The myth just explains the origins of the different types of theonite. I mean—tajakalu don’t go around claiming to be more descended or less descended from Bemba and Kri.”

“No,” Misaki said, “just their millennia-long parade of queens, kings, and generals.”

“Yes, but that makes sense,” Chul-hee protested. “That’s well-kept orature that only goes back a few thousand years. They don’t think they’re the descendants of... prehistoric god-fish.”

“It’s not something one thinks so much as something one knows,” Kotetsu said calmly, “as surely as the return of the snow and the tides. It is a feeling.”

“Convenient,” Chul-hee smiled, comfortable enough with Kotetsu by now to know that the swordsmith wouldn’t mind his irreverent quips. “It’s something you know because you feel it. It can’t be proved.”

“If you doubt, you must never have witnessed a Matsuda draw on the powers of the deep.”

Chul-hee was quiet for a moment. His eyes flicked upward, toward Kumono lake and the now-deserted school above. “I think I have.”

“Oh?”

“I watched Mamoru meditate once.”

“And?”

“He... he seemed to see things he couldn’t possibly know. It was dark, but he mapped out the whole mountain in his head, just from the mist on the rocks, the dew on the grass, and the flow of streams. It was amazing.”

Kotetsu shrugged. “If you think that could be done without a sliver of gods’ power then, by all means, keep to your Nagino Falleya.”

Chul-hee was quiet, his gaze seemingly lost in the mists around the lake.

“These finawu are here because they are the only ones who know how to send the souls of our dead on to the place they belong, into the arms of their true mother in the deep.”

“Your version of the Laaxara?” Chul-hee said, still staring at the lake.

Kotetsu nodded. “The Ocean of Souls.” He reached out a broad hand and clapped it down on Chul-hee’s shoulder, causing him to start out of his daze. “Now, be a good boy and help lug this old bag of gods’ blood up the mountain.”