Waterborn

much longer than your kind, have refined their communication with them.'

'I suppose that's true,' Perkar said, remembering the 'Ekar Irusungan,' the song telling of the world's beginning. When Human Beings came into the world, they found the forests and Alwat already there. 'They are friendly with the gods, then?'

'As friendly as you are with those in your father's lands, I suppose. But the Alwat have reached a different accommodation. Their understanding of gods is different, I think.'

'Do they ever…' Perkar felt himself flush hotly. 'Do the Alwat and the gods ever have… ah, union… ?'

Ngangata was looking at him very strangely. 'You mean sex?'

'I mean anything like that, touching, talking face-to-face, and sex, yes…'

'They live with them. They do not shut themselves up in dead walls…'

'My father's damakuta is not dead wood,' Perkar said, a bit annoyed. 'Father pleaded with the trees from which it was built; their spirits inhabit it still. As does the hearth god, and a little sprite or two—my house is not dead.'

'No, no. But compare that to living in the wildwoods. There are two kinds of gods…'

'Every child knows that,' Perkar said.

'Yes, but which is more common?'

'The Aniru, I suppose, the gods of places.'

'And the Anishu, the gods who live in things—they are fewer?'

Perkar thought about that. In his father's lands, there was one pasture god, who had been the old forest god —he was Aniru because his life was not tied to a single tree, but to an area of land. The Anishu lived in things, were things—like Ani Perkar, who lived in the oak, like… she, for she was the Stream.

'Yes, I think so. In the whole of the pasture there is really only the one god, the old forest god.'

'And the gods of the trees that once lived there, before your ancestor made his bargain with the old god of that land?'

'Gone, I suppose, or living as houses and fence rails.'

'But here, look around you. A god in each tree, not just in a few. And rather than one huge place with one god—like your pasture—there are many little ones; the god of that hollow, of this ridge, of that rock outcropping. There are the gods of territory here, too—we fought one—but they are outnumbered. Some of these Aniru resent all of the smaller gods within their territory, I think. I think that is why some bargain with your kind, because you simplify things. Kill all the lesser gods and the gods in things. Then the Aniru, those who live on territories, large spaces of the earth—then they are alone, unchallenged.'

'I never really thought about that,' Perkar muttered. 'I never really thought about the gods plotting against one another.'

'Of course you have. Every child learns 'The Song of the Hawk God and the Raven.' '

'Yes, but that song is about war. There are many like that. What you speak of is much more subtle, much more devious.'

'Yes.'

'But the Alwat do not 'simplify' things for the Aniru?'

'The Alwat prefer the gods in things,' Ngangata replied. 'The trees, the little places. And yes, they are intimate with them. They consider themselves kin.'

'As do we. I am kin to the pasture god.'

'Yes. But did you ever stop to wonder how the kinship custom came about? When Human Beings began moving into the forest, seeking pasture, whence came the idea of becoming kin?'

Perkar stared at the little man. 'The Alwat…'

'The Alwat did not give this idea to Human Beings. But the gods knew how to create bonds with the Alwat, and they did the same with your kind when you came along.' Ngangata's wide lips were certainly curved up at the corners now.

'How do you know this, Ngangata? Where does this knowledge of yours come from?'

'The Alwat sing songs about it.'

'The Alwat could lie.'

'The Alwat know about deception, and practice it often enough. But lying in speech is an idea foreign to them. If they do not want something known, they do not speak of it. Speech is only for truth, to them. I don't think they can conceive of anything different.'

Perkar laughed. 'That is very odd.' He looked speculatively at the half Alwa. 'And what of you, Ngangata? Do you share this inability to lie?'

Atti—possibly bored by their philosophical discussion—had been silent. Now he chuckled. 'He lies half of the time, of course.'

'Just so,' Ngangata agreed.

'You, Atti, do you know much of the gods?'

'More than I want to, I suppose,' the red-haired man drawled in his peculiar mountain accent.

'Has either of you ever been to the 'Great River'? The one the Mang call Toh?'

The mountain man and the half Alwa exchanged a peculiar glance.

'His headwaters are very near where we go,' Atti told him at last.

'What do the Alwat know of him?'

'They know him,' Ngangata said. 'They know better than to approach him. They name him Klanahawakadn: 'The Swallower.' Also, they call him Ov'fanakaklahuzn: 'He Who Changed.' '

'Why? What does that mean? I understand the swallowing part—any big river would do that.' He eats me up, she had told him. That meant more than he thought, he now realized.

'That River was once Anishu, like most rivers. He has become Aniru, the god of a place. A very, very long and large place. And he is very… simple.'

'Simple.' Perkar frowned. Simple. He eats me up.

Perkar rode along for a while in silence.

'I wonder how a god like that could be killed?' he whispered, just loud enough for Ngangata and Atti to hear.

Atti laughed, a loud, raucous belly laugh that must have hurt him, given his injuries. Indeed, he held his chest, tried to throttle his chortling. Ngangata reacted very differently; he scowled and shook his head. Perkar suspected the difference was that Ngangata realized he was serious, while Atti was picturing a flea arming itself to kill a horse.

 

 

Perkar was still pondering gods a while later, when the rains came. He was imagining a god who killed or caused to be killed every other god—the spirit of every tree, stone, little place in the world. It seemed to him—if there were only one huge god, like the pasture god but unimaginably bigger—it would be as if there were no gods at all.

The first few drops Perkar paid no mind, though behind him Apad and Eruka sent up a chorus of complaints and curses to the cloud gods, to the waters who fed them. But then the forest ceiling bent with the force of the rain, and sheets of water soaked them, as if the Stream Gods themselves had taken to the sky. Perkar was doubly glad now that he was not wearing armor, which would chafe painfully once the quilted clothing beneath it became wet. Apad and Eruka would soon have even more to complain about.

The rain carried that scent with it, that scent like flowers, and Perkar was suddenly, vividly reminded of her, of his sacrifice of roses. Of pale skin, so warm and Human, of the dark, musky smell of her as they lay together, her breasts pressed against him, her legs wrapped around him. The feelings were so bright-edged that he seemed to feel her fingers stroking his manhood, drawing the warmth in his belly into his groin and knotting it there. He groaned, listed in his saddle. The rain pounded on mercilessly, a shout from each raindrop coalescing into the roar of legions.

They caught up with the Alwat. The pale creatures stood waist-deep in a swollen stream, splashing one another. All but one, that is; the female that Perkar had begun to call 'Digger' in his mind. She stood in the water, as well, but did not play. When they came close she gestured. Ngangata dismounted, bent close to her mouth as