Waterborn

see, guess those he could not. Soon enough, however, he returned to sitting, and his eyelids began to droop once more.

All of his companions seemed to be having similar troubles; only the Huntress seemed alert, crouched in the clearing, unmoving as a statue, bright quick eyes darting here and there. The Alwat, Perkar suddenly realized, were nowhere to be seen.

A moment arrived, and Perkar no longer felt sleepy. The tree, the moss, everything around them suddenly unfocused, blurred into colors without much form and no detail. At first he believed the trouble was with his eyes, blurring vision to trick him into sleep; but then he heard the gasps around him. The world had gone strange, had faded. Perkar wondered if it would return. His mind turned over a conversation his father had had, long ago, with a shamaness who came to visit them, a relative of his mother's. She said something that reminded Perkar of this blurring. 'The world of gods and the world of Humans is the same world,' she said. 'They are both like a damakuta; but the world of gods is like the whole damakuta and the world of Humans is the paint on the outside of it. We live in that paint, see only what is painted there. The gods are visible to us sometimes—they are like carvings on the beams of the damakuta, and if the painter painted those carvings we know that they are there. Of course, the gods may choose to paint and then unpaint themselves, when it suits them…'

A god was painting himself, and in doing so he was smearing the paint already present.

This went on for longer than was comfortable, but finally the greens and browns congealed into what they were before: the great tree, the meadow, the surrounding forest and cliffs.

Save that now Balati, the Forest Lord, was among them. He stood where the Huntress had been crouching; she was gone.

At first glance, the Forest Lord was mostly Bear, an enormous shaggy mass reared up on hind legs. But Perkar quickly realized that he was not a bear, but something older than bears or men or Alwat, something that they were all dim reflections of. Huge, furred, with legs and paws like the boles of trees. Like the Huntress he was horned, but these were not horns of wood; they were great elk antlers, that measured, from tip to tip, more than Mang's body length. A powerful smell of black soil and beast permeated the air, nearly overpowered him with its intensity. Equally overpowering was the Forest Lord's single eye. It was bird and panther, deer and snake, flashing, changeable. Compelling and frightening. Its companion was a dark and empty socket.

'Lord Balati,' the Kapaka said, and he bowed. The towering figure regarded him impassively.

'Balati,' the Kapaka continued, after a suitable interval, in which Perkar found himself on his knees, as well. 'We sing songs of you, down in the pasturelands, in the valleys, in our hill holdings. We remember you well, and the ancient pacts you made with our fathers and their fathers.'

Balati shifted back his shoulders, and a low growl issued from him, so profound that it was more a rumbling in the earth than a real sound. And yet there was sense in it; there were words.

'It is good,' Balati said. 'It is good that you remember. Tell me of something. Tell me something you remember.'

There was silence; Perkar saw that all of his companions were bowed down, Eruka on both knees, Apad, grim- faced, on only one. Both looked as frightened as he felt.

'Eruka!' the Kapaka prompted, after a moment. 'Sing an Ekar!'

Eruka looked up slowly, as if he were having difficulty understanding his king's command. Perkar feared he would not sing— that his voice would be as frozen as his body had been when the Wild God spoke to them. But after a moment, Eruka cleared his throat.

Among roots and branches

On and on I dreamed

One day like the next

In the tall birches

In the white rustling aspen

In the deep bottoms

In bright pools

On and on

One day like the next…

Eruka's voice shook at first, uncertain. But the songs of birds seemed closer now, seemed to fly beneath and between his song, supporting it, lifting it higher. He gathered confidence.

Ages passing, on I dreamed

Hooves and claws

Coming and going

In the hard wind from the ice

Dreaming in the sweet southern wind

Age to age

One age like the next…

It was a song that Perkar had never heard, and it was beautiful, captivating. Eruka sang of Balati in the endless forest, walking about his mountain, of the legions of gods in the forest who were both a part and not a part of him. The song went on like that for many, many stanzas. For hours, it seemed. Then, finally, the words became more familiar, as it told of the coming of the Alwat and finally of Human Beings. After that, Eruka sang of the first meeting of Humans and the Forest Lord, of trees chopped down for pasture, of bargains made. When Eruka finally finished, Perkar found himself still listening, still waiting for an ending. But there was not one, of course. There was no ending. But one verse—a brief, minor thing in the course of the Forest Lord's Epic—one verse glittered to Perkar like silver to the Crow God. It stayed there, shining, repeating itself:

Dreaming on and on

I watched my brother grow bitter

Grow gluttonous

Humans fed his appetite

Fed his dark, voracious desire

Flowing from the root of our mountain

Our cradle, our birthplace

Bitter my brother, Rivergod, Changeling

Took his hunger seaward

Dreaming on and on

Growing and changing

Each day more ravenous

Than the last

Dreaming on and on

Even I feared him

And so armed myself…

Brother, thought Perkar. But a brother not trusted, a brother to arm against. Perkar felt something in his grasp, for who could this brother be but the dreadful River, the one that ate her? There was a weapon, and it must be nigh. His enemy and the weapon, here together.

He was scarcely aware when the earth began to rumble with the Forest Lord's speech.

'It is good,' Balati intoned. 'We can add another verse to this song. What will that verse be about?'

The Kapaka stood, spoke a trifle too loudly, a king of instants confronting a lord of epochs. 'In the Human lands, more and more sons go landless. We begin to turn on ourselves, and I fear troubled times. The local gods tell us that you have asked them not to bargain, as in days of old. They tell us that we must petition you for new lands and holdings to cherish and worship. So here we have come.'

The Forest Lord seemed to swell larger, like a shadow moving farther from the sun. Above them, the sky darkened with twilight.

'It is good that you heeded my word,' Balati said. 'It is good. Many valleys and hills, many gods have I given into your care, and you into theirs. It has been well enough, but Balat is smaller than it was, and I will only give so much. You understand this; you are a lord of your kind.'

'Yes. I understand. But I must request it.'

'You have respect, you honor the memories of your fathers,' Balati said. 'We will talk, you and I. We will talk