Michael Flynn - Up Jim River

“They have firearms!” Méarana said. “Not even the Nuxrjes’rii have firearms.”

Donovan called out to a farmer and waved. The man, after some hesitation, waved back. Because he had recognized the word? Or only because he recognized a greeting?

They came to a small bridge across a rushing mountain stream, one of the tributaries that would become first the Multawee, then the mighty Aríidnux. On the other side, on an island formed by a fork in the stream, houses stood cheek by jowl. But instead of crossing the bridge, Chain went to her knees on the stream’s bank and splashed the water on herself, letting it run down her arms and dashing it on her face. “O Xhodzhã! O Xhodzhã!”

Sofwari had gone downstream a little way and now crouched there. “Strange,” he said. “They have dug two tunnels under the stream. Why?” Slightly downstream was a statue of a goddess holding a lantern.

The people on the island studiously paid the newcomers no attention. The yaam Donovan held honked and yanked against his reins. Then he spit on Donovan. The scarred man made a pungent comment on the beast’s ancestry in the Terran patois.

And one of the men across the bridge repeated the phrase, adding a gesture with his finger.

Some words, it seemed, changed very little over the centuries. In terms of communication, it was little enough, but it was a start. Donovan exchanged grins with the other man. Yeah, life’s a bitch .

An elderly couple elbowed their way to the stream-bank. “Chain!” they cried. “Chain, gyuh xub pex dyushdu evda yodãí!” And then, although the stream was easily waded, Chain ran to the bridge and slapped across it on bare horny feet into their arms. The other Emrikii clasped their hands and cried, “Aw!” as a crow calls, but deeper and throatier.

Almost, Donovan could make out what they were saying. But the words eluded him like a tavern wench. He beckoned to the Harp translator, Watershanks.

“Lord Donovan,” he said before the scarred man could speak, “these people don’t like Harps. Much bad blood. Tell them I be riverman from Rajiloor. I am a riverman, really, for many years since I left Harp country.”

Paulie’s lip curled. “Seems the Harps breed for cowards as well as bugnuts.”

Donovan was not certain whether the cold-blooded fighters of World were in any way preferable to the wild emotions of the Enjrunii. “Stick close by,” he told Watershanks. “The more you talk the loora nuxrjes’r and the less you talk the tanga cru’tye , the more you may set their minds at ease. Sofwari, hold onto my yaam. Méarana, when you’re ready.”

Donovan, Méarana, and Watershanks moved to the foot of the bridge. The Emrikii stirred uneasily, counting numbers, but clearly counting Teodorq and Paulie more than once. They had recognized Teodorq’s nine as a weapon, and possibly the dazers that Donovan and Billy wore. The people of this high valley did not have high tech, unless one counted gunpowder and waterwheels, but they clearly knew it when they saw it.

“Give them a friendly greeting,” Donovan told his translator.

Watershanks said something to Chain in the tanga , and the Emrikii murmured at the sounds and rhythms of their enemies.

It was in Chain’s hands to bring it all down on them, and Donovan could see the knowledge of that power in her eyes. All she need do is tell her people whatever vengeance she wished. But she must know that the strangers, although they had seemed on good terms with her captors, were clearly not of them. Their strange clothing and accouterments indicated great power. What could they wreak if offended? Finally, she said something in the tanga; and, after she had spoken the words, she knelt by the riverside and cupped water in her mouth and spat it out.

Donovan said to Watershanks, “If you want to ease their minds, every time you say something in the tanga , rinse your mouth out and spit.” The riverman stubborned up for a moment. He did not want to be identified with his people, not here and now; but that did not mean he wished to repudiate them. Yet, prudence won, and he did as Donovan advised.

“We have come,” Donovan announced, “seeking the men who wrought this.” And Méarana lifted the medallion from around her neck and held it up for all to see. “For we would know where the place is where this fire comes down from the sky.”

Not many could have made out the design on the medallion, but excitement bubbled through the growing crowd. Donovan heard them say, over and over, “El bhweka ezgoyfrõ!” And “El zagwibhoyshiz!” And they broke into cheers that were quite different from the ululations of the Great Valley, and opened a path from the bridge into the village of Dacitti.

There was a great deal of handslapping and general cheer as they made their way up a broad path to the village green, and Donovan could see that his companions were heartened by the welcome. But a vague unease stirred within him. «Something is not quite right.» I’m working on it. He looked about the village for escape routes. «Just in case,» his Inner Child told him. Meanwhile, he smiled at the people he encountered. They would not understand his words, but his friendly tone would come through.

Dacitti sat on a long, narrow island between the Xhodzhã and the Rjoyezdy. Save for the farmers scattered about the valley, nearly all the Emrikii lived on this island. In consequence, the huts were crowded close and, in some cases were stacked three high atop one another, with access by ladders. There were well-trod paths between the huts and many of them had been laid with corduroy planks or paving stones. The paths were rectilinear, save at the lower end, where the two streams came together, where they were more tangled. Donovan supposed that this arrangement had originally been for defense—the two streams were not especially formidable, but did provide a moat of sorts to protect the village from attack.

Whatever threat had once motivated its construction, the valley of the Emrikii was now peaceful and secure. The other valley tribes had long ago joined their confederacy. The Oorah used to raid into Emrika to capture women, but now seldom tried. Harp bravos sometimes led war parties into the Kobberjobbles, but the path was too arduous, the sentries too vigilant, and the Emrikii warriors too disciplined. Now the Harps were leaving the Longfoot Valley—blaming a poor harvest rather than an Emrikii punitive expedition.

A large rectangular green occupied the center of Dacitti. It included a sheep meadow and a pond where fish were cultivated. Much of this cornucopia was laid out for the visitors that afternoon in a great feast. Damáire, who was village headman, bid them official welcome and when the platitudes and formalities had been completed, Méarana finally got an answer to her question.

“The sky-fire comes down up there,” Watershanks told them as Damáire pointed to a flat peak at the far end of the valley.

“Every night,” said Billy Chins, “to cook their food.”

Damáire laughed at the humor of the starmen. “You are a funny man,” he told the Confederate courier. “That is only a legend of superstitious Valley folk. No, it is the sperm of the sky. When the god grows horny, he comes to our world to impregnate her. The sky-fire is his thrust into her.

“‘Fire from sky meets womb in ground.

Thrusting deep within…’”

“Well,” said Billy wooden-faced. “We wouldn’t want to believe a superstitious legend.”

“Sperm,” said Donovan. He could not get out of his mind what Méarana had told him on the Starwalk at Siggy O’Hara. “Then why ‘fire’ from the sky?”